Suddenly, everyone remembers.

They remember the little things. The way they laughed. The way they used to complain about stupid things. The songs they liked. The messages they sent. The kindness they showed without making a big deal out of it.

And then there are flowers.

So many flowers.

Flowers on graves. Flowers in photographs. Flowers held by people who are crying and saying, I wish I had told them.

But I keep wondering—

where were the flowers when they were alive?

Why do we wait until someone cannot hear us anymore to tell them they were loved?

Maybe we think there is plenty of time.

We think we’ll say it tomorrow.

We’ll visit next week.

We’ll call when we’re less busy.

We’ll tell them how proud we are when the moment feels right.

And sometimes the moment never comes.

I don’t mean only death.

Sometimes people are still alive, but we lose them anyway.

A friend slowly becomes a stranger. Someone moves away. A family member grows distant. Someone who used to sit beside you every day becomes a person you only remember when an old photograph appears on your phone.

And we miss them quietly.

We think about all the things we could have said.

All the hugs we could have given.

All the ordinary afternoons we didn’t know were going to become memories.

Maybe that’s the saddest part of being human.

We rarely know which moment is the last ordinary moment.

The last conversation that felt unimportant.

The last time someone laughed beside us.

The last time we said, “see you tomorrow,” believing tomorrow was guaranteed.

I don’t think we need grand gestures.

Sometimes a flower can just be a flower.

A message saying, I thought of you today.

A cup of tea.

A stupid little gift.

A “you did well.”

A “I’m glad you’re here.”

A few kind words that might feel unnecessary today, but could mean everything to someone tomorrow.

We are so afraid of being sentimental while people are here.

We worry that saying too much will make us look foolish.

So we save the beautiful words for later.

For photographs.

For memorials.

For flowers.

Maybe we should give some of them away while people can still hold them.

While they can still laugh and say we’re being dramatic.

While they can still put the flowers in a glass and leave them beside their bed.

I don’t know.

I just wish we knew how to love people better before we had to miss them.

So—
Where are the flowers when we are alive?

Maybe they don’t have to be anything extraordinary.
Maybe the flowers are just waiting for someone to bring them.

Iris woke up at 3:17 a.m.

Again.

She stared at the clock.

She had been waking at the same time for three nights.

She didn’t know why.

On the fourth night, she decided not to go back to sleep.

Instead, she sat at her desk and opened her notebook.

She started writing whatever came to mind.

Nothing important.

The rain.

The window.

The sound of the clock.

Then her hand stopped.

Without thinking, she had written:

Don’t open the red door.

Iris stared at the sentence.

She didn’t remember writing it.

She didn’t even remember knowing about a red door.

She crossed it out.

Then stopped.

Because underneath the sentence, in handwriting that wasn’t hers, was another line.

She hadn’t written that one.

You already did.

Iris’s breath caught.

She looked at the clock.

3:17.

Then something strange happened.

She remembered a hallway.

Not imagined.

Remembered.

A narrow hallway.

A red door.

Someone holding her hand.

And a voice whispering:

“Whatever happens, you don’t remember this.”

The memory disappeared almost immediately.

Iris sat completely still.

Then she looked at her notebook again.

There was one final line beneath the others.

She was certain she hadn’t written it.

You asked me to make you forget.

I don't remember the door. I remember knowing it

Maybe that’s the point.

Sometimes my head is so full that when I finally get the chance to say something, there is nothing left to say.

Just silence.

I think about the person I wanted to become.

Sometimes I wonder if they are still somewhere inside me.

Maybe they are.

Maybe they’re just tired of knocking on doors that never open.

There are so many doors.

Things I wanted to do.
Things I wanted to say.
Places I wanted to go.
People I wanted to become.

And somehow, there is always a reason why I can’t.

Not now.

Not yet.

You’re too young.

You’re too much.

You’re not enough.

Do better.

Try harder.

Be responsible.

Be someone everyone can be proud of.

Nobody really tells you what happens when you keep hearing those things.

You start building a version of yourself that everyone else can live with.

And somewhere along the way, you forget to ask yourself if you can live with it too.

I have dreams.

I still do.

I just don’t talk about them much anymore.

Some dreams feel embarrassing once you say them out loud.

Some feel impossible.

Some feel like they belong to a different version of me.

The version who wasn’t afraid.

The version who didn’t think about every possible way things could go wrong.

The version who believed that wanting something was enough to someday have it.

I miss that person.

I don’t even know if I ever really was that person.

Maybe I only imagined them.

Maybe that’s what hope does.

It makes you imagine a life that hasn’t happened yet.

And sometimes that imagination is the only beautiful thing you have.

Until reality comes knocking.

And reality doesn’t knock gently.

It asks for results.

It asks why you’re not better yet.

Why you’re not stronger.

Why you’re not doing more.

Why you can’t be like everyone else.

Nobody asks how tired you are.

Nobody asks how many times you had to put your own feelings somewhere else because somebody needed you.

So you learn.

You learn to smile when you’re exhausted.

You learn to say “I’m fine” without thinking.

You learn to laugh at things that hurt.

You learn to keep your dreams quiet.

You learn to fold yourself smaller.

And after a while, people call you mature.

Maybe that’s the saddest part.

Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if I had been allowed to grow without being afraid of becoming a disappointment.

Would I be louder?

Would I talk more?

Would I say what I actually think?

Would I chase the things I want instead of standing at the door, waiting for someone to tell me it’s okay to enter?

I don’t know.

There are days when I feel like I could fly.

And there are days when even looking at the sky feels exhausting.

Maybe that’s why I like the sky so much.

It reminds me of everything I can’t reach.

Funny, isn’t it?

We spend our whole lives looking at things above us.

Dreams.

Freedom.

Possibilities.

And then we look down and remember where we are.

Maybe my wings were never broken.

Maybe they were just clipped slowly.

A little by every expectation.

A little by every closed door.

A little by every dream I was told to postpone.

A little by every time I chose silence because speaking felt too difficult.

And now I don’t know how to fly anymore.

But somewhere inside me, stupidly, quietly—

I still want to.

I still hope.

I still look at the sky.

“I still look up sometimes, not because I think I can fly, but because I remember when I thought I could.” 🥀

Not the long ones where you talked for hours. Not necessarily the people you expected to remember. Sometimes it’s just a random conversation that lasts a few minutes, and somehow, weeks later, you still remember how it felt.

Maybe because people leave behind more than words.

Some leave you feeling lighter.

Some make you laugh.

Some make you wonder why you ever started talking to them in the first place.

And then there are the conversations that are difficult to describe.

Nothing particularly dramatic happened. There isn’t always a perfect moment you can point to and say, there. That’s when everything changed.

Sometimes, it’s just a strange little feeling sitting somewhere in the back of your mind.

I’ve started thinking about how different people can make the internet feel.

There was someone who once helped me find a friend. He didn’t know me particularly well, and he didn’t have to do anything. But he talked to me, helped me out, and somehow made a huge, noisy internet feel a little smaller.

I remember that.

Not because it was some life-changing event.

Just because it was kind.

And maybe that’s what makes certain interactions stand out. We don’t always remember exactly what someone said. We remember how easy it was to be ourselves around them.

I’ve had conversations that felt like that.

And I’ve had conversations that didn’t.

The strange thing is, the difference isn’t always obvious.

Sometimes both people are technically being nice.

Both are asking questions.

Both are talking.

Both might even make you laugh.

But somehow, one conversation makes you think, that was nice.

And the other makes you think, I think I’ll keep a little more distance.

You might not know exactly why.

And honestly, maybe you don’t need to.

I used to think you needed a reason for every feeling. If something made you uncomfortable, you had to explain exactly what happened, exactly which word was wrong, exactly why you felt that way.

But people aren’t spreadsheets.

Sometimes your mind notices something before you can put it into a sentence.

And I think that’s worth listening to.

Not every stranger is dangerous.

Not every stranger is wonderful either.

Some people appear in your life for five minutes and leave something good behind.

Some stay longer.

Some teach you to be more careful.

And some simply remind you that being comfortable around someone is different from being familiar with them.

Maybe that’s the real difference.

Kindness doesn’t ask you to ignore your instincts.

It doesn’t rush closeness.

It doesn’t make you feel like you have to give more of yourself just because someone gave you their attention.

Real kindness can be surprisingly quiet.

Sometimes it’s just someone helping you find a friend.

Sometimes it’s just a conversation that leaves you smiling instead of questioning it afterward.

And maybe those are the people worth remembering.

Not because they were strangers.

But because, for a little while, they made being around a stranger feel easy.

Not every stranger is meant to stay. Some are simply there to remind us what safe feels like.

Why do people think the eldest child has to carry everything?

They expect us to stay quiet even when something is unfair.
We have to be the last one to get something.
And sometimes it hurts.

You watch someone younger get something you wanted at their age, but you never got it.

You watch everyone take their side.
Everyone comforts them.
Everyone listens to them.

But when it’s you?

You just have to deal with it.

You have to manage things.
You have to help everyone.
Sometimes you even get blamed for things just because you’re the eldest.

And you can’t even do something wrong because then it’s:

“Your younger ones are learning from you.”

So you try to be better.
You try to work harder.
You try to be responsible.

You sacrifice things.

And sometimes, we always have a smile on our face.

But that doesn’t mean we’re always happy.

There are so many fake smiles that nobody notices.
And sometimes the genuine ones feel so rare.

Ask yourself...

When was the last time you smiled genuinely?

Maybe we don’t even remember.

We don’t cry in front of everyone.
That doesn’t mean we’re not sad.

Sometimes we just don’t know how to say that we’re tired.

Sometimes we want to talk.
We want to cry.
We want someone to ask what’s wrong.

But then we go silent.

At night, when everyone is sleeping, you’re just there with all those feelings by yourself.

You see your younger siblings getting comfort.

And you wonder...

“Why don’t I get that too?”

Being the eldest doesn’t mean we don’t get tired.

It doesn’t mean we don’t need someone.

It doesn’t mean we should always sacrifice.

We’re someone’s child too.

And maybe the eldest child doesn’t always need another reminder to be responsible.

Maybe sometimes, they just need someone to ask:

“Are you okay?” ❄️

Dreams never ask for proof.

Sometimes I wonder if every meaningful story begins the same way—not with grand gestures or perfect timing, but with something as ordinary as a conversation between two strangers.

No promises.

No expectations.

Just curiosity.

Maybe that’s why chance encounters feel so fascinating. Out of billions of people, one person pauses long enough to say hello, and suddenly the ordinary feels a little less ordinary.

The logical part of me says,

“It’s just a conversation.”

But imagination has always been a terrible listener.

It quietly asks,

“What if this is how some stories begin?”

Not because every conversation becomes something unforgettable...

But because every unforgettable story once looked completely ordinary.

Perhaps that’s the strange thing about hope.

It doesn’t demand certainty.

It simply leaves tiny questions behind.

What if someone remembers your words longer than you expect?

What if a passing conversation brightened someone else’s day without you ever knowing?

What if people cross paths for reasons they’ll only understand much later...

—or maybe for no reason at all?

Reality smiles at those thoughts and calls them coincidences.

Dreams call them possibilities.

Maybe both are right.

So I’ll let reality make tomorrow’s decisions.

But tonight...

I’ll let imagination wander a little further.

Because sometimes the most beautiful stories aren’t the ones we live.

They’re the ones that remind us we’re still capable of wondering.

Dear Little one,

If you’re reading this, then time has done what it always does—it kept moving.

The little boy I’m writing about probably doesn’t exist anymore.

Right now, you’re only three years old.

You’re probably running around the house instead of sitting still.

You’re asking “Why?” every five minutes.

You steal snacks from everyone’s plate as if sharing is a law that only applies to other people.

You make a mess, look at it for two seconds, and somehow decide it has become my problem.

Sometimes I sigh.

Sometimes I laugh.

Sometimes you test every last bit of my patience.

But one day...

I know I’ll miss every single one of those moments.

You won’t remember these years.

You won’t remember how I carried you when your legs were too tired to walk.

You won’t remember sitting on my lap while I tried to finish my own work.

You won’t remember the countless bowls of rice I fed you because you refused to eat unless someone followed you around the house with a spoon.

You won’t remember falling asleep against my shoulder.

Or reaching for my hand without even thinking.

Kids rarely remember their earliest years.

That’s okay.

Because someone has to remember them for you.

And I do.

I remember the first time I saw you.

You were so tiny.

So unbelievably small that I was afraid to hold you too tightly.

I kept wondering how someone so little could completely change the rhythm of an entire home.

Before you arrived, the house was quieter.

Then suddenly there were tiny cries in the middle of the night...

Tiny socks drying in the sun...

Tiny shoes left in impossible places...

Tiny laughter echoing through every room.

You grew so slowly that I barely noticed.

Until one day I looked at an old photo and realized...

The baby I used to carry had quietly disappeared.

Sometimes I wish childhood came with a pause button.

Not because I don’t want you to grow.

But because I know these ordinary days are secretly becoming memories.

One day you’ll stop asking me to tie your shoes.

You’ll stop reaching for my hand when we cross the road.

You’ll stop calling for me every few minutes.

You’ll become taller.

Stronger.

You’ll build a life that has nothing to do with me.

And that’s exactly how it should be.

But if I’m honest...

I already miss the version of you that still exists.

Because I know he won’t stay forever.

Maybe years from now we’ll argue over silly things.

Maybe you’ll think I’m annoying.

Maybe we’ll both become busy with our own lives.

That happens to siblings.

Life changes people.

But I hope one thing never changes.

I hope you always know there was someone quietly standing behind you from the very beginning.

Someone cheering for your first smile.

Your first steps.

Your first words.

Your first birthday.

Your third birthday.

Your hundred tiny milestones that nobody else thought were important.

I noticed them all.

If life ever becomes difficult...

If you fail.

If your heart gets broken.

If people leave.

If the world becomes too loud...

Please remember this.

Before you knew how to read...

Before you knew how to write...

Before you even knew who you were...

You were already loved.

Not because of your grades.

Not because of success.

Not because you became someone important.

You were loved simply because you were you.

If one day you ever doubt your worth...

Come back to this letter.

Read it again.

Remember that somewhere in the past, your older sister looked at a tiny three-year-old boy covered in crumbs, asking a hundred questions, making endless messes...

...and thought,

“I hope the world is kind to you.”

I can’t promise I’ll always be beside you.

Life doesn’t make promises like that.

But I hope whenever you think of home...

You remember warmth.

Laughter.

The smell of birthday cakes cooling in the kitchen.

The sound of us arguing over the TV remote.

The afternoons when I chased you around the house with a spoon because you refused to eat.

The little moments that felt ordinary...

but quietly became the happiest parts of our lives.

One day, you’ll read this as an adult.

I’ll probably be older too.

Maybe we’ll laugh about how dramatic I was.

Or maybe we’ll both cry a little.

Either way...

If I could ask one thing from you, it would be this:

Grow into someone kind.

Protect the people you love.

Never be ashamed of having a soft heart.

And whenever life gives you a reason to smile...

Smile a little extra for the little boy you used to be.

There will come a day when people know you by your full name.

Teachers will call your name during attendance.
Friends will shout it across classrooms.
One day, someone will introduce you by that name.

But somewhere, hidden in a corner of my heart...

You’ll always be Milkshake.

I don’t know if you’ll outgrow the nickname.
You’ll probably roll your eyes and tell me,
“Please don’t call me that anymore.”

That’s okay.

Because every time I hear that name in my own heart, I’ll remember the little boy who laughed with rice on his cheeks, reached for my hand without thinking, and filled our home with tiny footsteps.

To everyone else, you’ll grow into your own name.

To me, you’ll always be Milkshake.

Happy Birthday, my little brother.

Thank you for turning ordinary days into memories I’ll carry for the rest of my life.

With all my love,

Your crime partner. 🤍

The next morning, Iris was standing outside the town hall before it opened.

The envelope from the library rested inside her bag. She had barely slept, replaying every detail from the previous night. The photograph. The faded handwriting. The impossible feeling that someone had hidden the truth on purpose.

The old clerk glanced up as she entered.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for property records.”

He nodded without question and led her to a room lined with steel cabinets.

“Address?”

She told him.

He pulled out a folder.

“Everything we have is in here.”

The file was thinner than she expected.

A deed.

A tax receipt.

A renovation permit from fifteen years ago.

Nothing unusual.

Until she reached the ownership history.

Her eyes scanned the page.

1998 — Eleanor Ashcroft

2011 — Estate Transfer

She frowned.

“That’s it?”

The clerk looked over her shoulder.

“Looks normal to me.”

“There should be an owner before 1998.”

He shrugged.

“If there was, it’s not here.”

“Records don’t just begin.”

“They can if older files are destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“Fire. Flood. Clerical mistakes.” He smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

Iris wasn’t convinced.

As she closed the folder, something slipped from between the pages.

A small index card.

No writing.

Just a number.

Archive Room B – Shelf 19

She held it up.

“This wasn’t inside before.”

The clerk blinked.

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“Archive B has been locked for years.”

Twenty minutes later, she found the heavy metal door at the end of a quiet hallway.

A rusted padlock hung from the handle.

Or rather...

Half of one.

It had already been cut.

Someone had entered recently.

Inside, shelves stretched into the darkness.

Dust covered almost everything.

Almost.

One aisle had fresh footprints.

Someone else had been here.

She followed them to Shelf 19.

The space where the file should have been was empty.

Only a handwritten note remained.

It wasn’t old.

The ink was still dark.

It read:

If you’re reading this, you’re already too late.

Iris stared at the note.

Someone wasn’t just hiding the truth.

They knew she was looking for it.

And they had arrived first.

The file was gone.

But someone had left something in its place.

A photograph.

She was in it.

The picture had been taken ten years before she was born.

I spend more time in fictional worlds than in crowded rooms. Somewhere between ink and imagination, I meet people who never existed—yet somehow understand me better than many real people ever could.

I know they aren’t real.

Still, I laugh with them, grieve for them, celebrate their victories, and miss them when their story ends. Fiction doesn’t ask for introductions, confidence, or perfect words. It simply opens a door and lets me belong for a while.

People often ask why someone becomes so attached to fictional characters.

Maybe because stories remind us that emotions don’t need a heartbeat to feel real. Sometimes the people who never existed leave the deepest footprints in our hearts.

And perhaps that’s the quiet magic of fiction:

It creates memories with people we’ll never meet, yet somehow never forget.

Perhaps the people who shaped us never had a heartbeat to begin with.

Or maybe you’ve never fallen in love with a fictional character... until now you’ve realized you already have.

The applause faded.

Conversations returned.

Laughter filled the dining room once again.

As though nothing unusual had happened.

As though the study had never fallen silent.

Iris slipped the envelope into her pocket.

She didn’t look at it.

Not yet.

The maid had already disappeared.

No one else seemed to notice.

“...Are you alright?”

Mrs. Bennett smiled.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m just... tired.”

“Birthdays can be exhausting.”

“...I suppose.”

Mrs. Bennett laughed softly before turning back to the guests.

Iris forced herself to smile.

A few minutes later...

She quietly excused herself.

“I’ll be upstairs.”

“Don’t wander too far,” her father joked.

“I won’t.”

The hallway felt different now.

Quieter.

The music downstairs had become little more than a distant echo.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The grandfather clock continued counting the seconds.

She stopped.

The study door remained shut.

Exactly as before.

No voices.

No movement.

Only silence.

Her hand drifted toward the envelope.

The paper felt rough.

Old.

As though it had waited years for someone to open it.

She entered the library.

Rows of books surrounded her.

Dust floated through the afternoon light.

She carefully broke the seal.

Inside...

There wasn’t a letter.

Only a photograph.

Black and white.

Its edges had faded with time.

At first...

Nothing seemed unusual.

Mr. Bennett.

Mrs. Bennett.

A much younger Iris.

She couldn’t have been older than six.

She smiled at the camera.

But she wasn’t alone.

Standing beside her...

Was a boy.

Around the same age.

He smiled too.

One hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

Iris frowned.

“...Who are you?”

The face meant nothing to her.

She turned the photograph over.

Someone had written a single sentence.

In faded blue ink.

Some memories survive because someone refuses to remember them.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She read it again.

And again.

A creak.

Not behind her.

Above her.

She looked toward the ceiling.

Someone...

was walking upstairs.

Slowly.

One step.

Then another.

The footsteps stopped.

Directly above the library.

Iris held her breath.

The house became silent once more.

Then...

Three soft knocks echoed from inside the wall.

Knock.

...

Knock.

...

Knock.

End of Chapter Five

When we were kids, we asked questions about everything.

Why is the sky blue?

Why do birds fly?

Why can’t fish breathe on land?

At some point, many of us stop asking.

Not because the questions disappear.

Because we’re afraid they’ll sound silly.

But I’ve noticed something.

The most interesting people I’ve met aren’t the ones with all the answers.

They’re the ones who never stopped asking questions.

Curiosity isn’t about knowing more than everyone else.

It’s about admitting you don’t know—and wanting to learn anyway.

Maybe that’s why I love reading, building things, and observing people.

Every new idea begins with a simple question.

“What if?”

I don’t think curiosity is something we outgrow.

I think it’s something we choose to keep.

And perhaps that’s one of the bravest choices we can make.

The world still has countless questions waiting for someone brave enough to ask them.

The doorknob stopped.

Silence.

Not a single voice came from inside the study.

Iris stood frozen.

Then—

A phone rang.

Its sharp sound broke the silence.

Footsteps moved away from the door.

“...Excuse me.”

Mr. Harris’s voice.

Iris didn’t wait.

She turned and hurried down the hallway.

By the time she reached the living room, laughter had already filled the house again.

“...There you are.”

Mrs. Bennett smiled.

“We were wondering where you’d gone.”

“I... was just looking around.”

“Well, come back. Everyone’s waiting.”

“...Yes, Mother.”

The room looked exactly the same.

Crystal glasses.

Half-finished desserts.

Soft music playing in the background.

No one looked worried.

No one looked guilty.

Had she imagined it?

No.

She knew what she heard.

“If she finds out...”

The words refused to leave her mind.

Mrs. Harris looked around once more.

“Ethan?”

A voice answered from the doorway.

“I’m here.”

Everyone turned.

He was holding a book.

“You disappeared again,” Mrs. Harris sighed.

“I found the library.”

Mr. Bennett laughed politely.

“You’re welcome to borrow anything.”

“...Thank you.”

Ethan placed the book back onto the shelf before quietly taking his seat.

For a brief moment...

His eyes met Iris’s.

“You look pale.”

She blinked.

“...Do I?”

He nodded once.

“You weren’t pale earlier.”

Before she could answer—

Mrs. Bennett stood.

“I think it’s time for cake.”

Everyone gathered around the dining table.

The candles were lit.

The lights dimmed.

“Make a wish,” someone said.

Iris looked at the tiny flames.

A wish.

She couldn’t think of one.

Not anymore.

She blew out the candles.

The room filled with applause.

Everyone smiled.

Everyone...

Except Ethan.

He wasn’t looking at the cake.

He wasn’t looking at the guests.

He was looking toward the study.

As though he had heard something too.

As everyone laughed...

The maid quietly slipped an old envelope into Iris’s hand.

“...Don’t open this here.”

End of Chapter Four

After dinner...

Everyone moves to the living room.

Adults are chatting.

Someone suggests opening the birthday gifts early.

Mrs. Bennett smiles.

“Oh, wonderful idea.”

The gifts are brought in.

Beautiful boxes.

Expensive wrapping.

Luxury brands.

Everyone gathers around Iris.

“Go on.”

“Open them.”

She forces a smile.

“Thank you...”

Gift after gift.

Perfume.

Jewelry.

A designer handbag.

Everyone watches her reaction.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

“It suits you perfectly.”

“Richard, we found this in Milan.”

Every answer sounds the same.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I love it.”

She doesn’t.

She can’t even remember which gift belongs to whom.

Then...

Mrs. Harris suddenly looks around.

“...Ethan?”

He’s gone.

Cut.

Where is he?

Iris quietly slips away to look.

The hallway is empty.

The study door is slightly open.

A light spills through the crack.

She walks closer.

Then—

She hears voices.

Not casual conversation.

Arguing.

Mr. Bennett.

Mr. Harris.

Low.

Sharp.

Urgent.

“...I told you this should’ve stayed buried.”

“It wasn’t my decision.”

“It becomes your decision when my family is involved.”

Silence.

Then—

“If she finds out...”

Iris freezes.

“...she?”

Who?

Her?

Someone else?

Before she can hear more—

A floorboard CREAKS beneath her foot.

Silence inside the room.

Complete silence.

Then—

The doorknob slowly begins to turn...

END OF CHAPTER THREE.

Guests and Masks

The Bennett house had become louder.

Boxes filled the hallway.

Fresh flowers stood in tall glass vases.

Someone was polishing silverware in the dining room while another person carefully hung fairy lights outside.

Everything had to be perfect.

“Not there.”

Mrs. Bennett pointed toward the fireplace.

“The white lilies go on the left.”

The maid quietly moved the vase.

“And the roses?”

“Dining room.”dining

She turned to Iris.

“Would you bring the gift boxes downstairs?”

“Yes, Mother.”

The boxes weren’t heavy.

There were just... a lot of them.

Trip after trip, Iris carried them down the staircase without saying a word.

By the last one, her arms were sore.

No one noticed.

Or maybe they did.

Mr. Bennett walked into the dining room, adjusting the cuffs of his suit.

He looked around slowly.

“The candles are uneven.”

Mrs. Bennett frowned.

“They looked fine a minute ago.”

“They’re uneven now.”

Without another word, Iris stepped forward and adjusted them.

A little left.

A little right.

She stepped back.

Mr. Bennett looked again.

“...Better.”

That was enough.

“Iris.”

She turned.

“What are you wearing?”

“My cardigan.”

“It’s wrinkled.”

She looked down.

It wasn’t.

Still...

“I’m sorry.”

“Go change.”

“...Yes, Father.”

Back in her room, Iris closed the door quietly.

For a moment, the noise downstairs disappeared.

She walked to the wardrobe and picked another cardigan.

As she slipped it on, one sleeve caught against her wrist.

She paused.

Without thinking, she pulled the fabric lower until it covered everything.

Then she checked the mirror.

Neat.

Simple.

Nothing that would invite questions.

She picked up the small silver clip from her desk and pinned back a loose strand of hair.

Perfect enough.

She left the room.

The doorbell rang.

“They’re here!” Mrs. Bennett called, her smile appearing almost instantly.

She opened the front door.

“Richard!”

“Theodore!”

The two men shook hands with bright smiles.

Mrs. Harris stepped inside carrying a neatly wrapped gift.

“Oh, this is for Iris.”

“You didn’t have to!” Mrs. Bennett laughed.

“It’s nothing.”

Behind them stood a boy about Iris’s age.

He was tall.

A light blue button-up shirt was neatly tucked into dark trousers, the sleeves rolled just below his elbows.

A white sweater rested loosely over his shoulders.

Thin rimless glasses sat neatly on his face.

His dark hair looked as though he’d combed it carefully that morning, though one stubborn strand had already escaped.

Mrs. Harris looked over her shoulder.

“Ethan.”

He blinked.

“Hm?”

“Come inside.”

“Oh.”

He stepped in.

“...Right.”

Mrs. Harris sighed.

“I told him three times we were leaving.”

“I remembered,” Ethan replied calmly.

“You walked outside wearing two different shoes.”

He looked down.

“...I did.”

Mr. Harris laughed.

“That’s my son.”

Ethan disappeared behind the hallway wall for less than a minute before returning with matching shoes.

“I fixed it.”

Mrs. Harris shook her head.

“I honestly don’t know what goes on inside that head of yours.”

He smiled politely.

“...Neither do I.”

Even Mr. Bennett laughed.

Only Iris smiled without realizing it.

It lasted barely a second.

“Oh!” Mrs. Bennett clapped her hands.

“Iris, come here.”

She stepped forward.

Mrs. Harris beamed.

“So this is the birthday girl.”

“Happy early birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve grown so much.”

Mrs. Bennett smiled proudly.

“She spends most of her time reading.”

“And practicing piano,” Mr. Bennett added.

“She’s very disciplined.”

Ethan looked at Iris.

“...Do you like piano?”

The room became oddly quiet.

Before Iris could answer—

“Oh, she loves it,” Mrs. Bennett replied.

Ethan frowned slightly.

“...I asked Iris.”

Another silence.

Mrs. Harris cleared her throat.

“Ethan.”

“What?”

His voice carried genuine confusion.

“I was only asking.”

Iris looked up for the first time.

“...It’s okay.”

She answered so quietly that only Ethan seemed to hear.

“I don’t mind it.”

He nodded once.

“...Okay.”

Nothing more.

No awkward apology.

No unnecessary conversation.

Just acceptance.

“Everyone, dinner is ready,” Mrs. Bennett announced.

The dining table looked as though it belonged in a magazine.

Crystal glasses reflected the warm lights above.

Every plate sat exactly the same distance from the edge.

Every napkin was folded perfectly.

Mrs. Bennett glanced around.

“Ethan, why don’t you sit beside Iris?”

“If she doesn’t mind.”

Another pause.

Mrs. Bennett smiled politely.

“I’m sure she doesn’t.”

Ethan looked at Iris instead.

“...Do you?”

No one had asked her opinion all evening.

“...No.”

She almost added thank you.

She wasn’t sure why.

He pulled out the chair for her before taking the seat beside her.

The conversations around the table quickly became louder.

Business.

Travel.

Old memories.

Everyone had something to say.

Iris quietly reached for her glass.

At the same moment, Ethan reached for the bread basket.

Their hands brushed.

“Oh.”

He pulled his hand back immediately.

“...Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

A few seconds passed.

Ethan watched everyone laugh.

“...Funny.”

Iris glanced at him.

“...What is?”

He kept looking ahead.

“How everyone smiles at the same time.”

...

End of Chapter Two

The House That Smiled

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mrs. Carter stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, a basket of fresh bread resting against her hip.

“They’ve already started decorating?”

Her husband looked up from his newspaper.

“For the birthday?”

She smiled.

“The Bennetts never do anything halfway.”

Across the road, strings of fairy lights were being hung along the front porch. Fresh flowers were carried through the front door while soft music drifted from somewhere inside the house.

“It must be nice,” Mrs. Carter said.

“A family that still celebrates birthdays like this.”

Mr. Carter chuckled.

“Not everyone is that lucky.”

Neither of them noticed the curtain on the second floor move.

Only for a moment.

Someone had been watching.

“Iris?”

The bedroom door opened without a knock.

Her mother stood in the doorway, perfectly dressed despite the early hour.

“The florist will be here soon.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still standing there?”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Her mother didn’t answer.

She simply looked at her.

It wasn’t an angry look.

It didn’t need to be.

“...Yes, Mother.”

“Good.”

The door closed.

Only then did Iris breathe again.

She stayed where she was for another few seconds before turning away from the window.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

She picked up the cream-colored cardigan lying across the chair and slipped it on.

As she reached for the sleeves, they slid back just enough to reveal faint marks across her wrist.

She pulled the fabric down until it covered them completely.

Then she checked once more.

No marks.

No questions.

Just the way everyone liked it.

“Iris!”

Her father’s voice echoed from downstairs.

“We’re waiting.”

“I’m coming.”

She glanced at herself in the mirror.

Her hair was neat.

Her smile looked believable enough.

That would have to do.

The Bennett house was already awake.

A maid hurried through the hallway carrying fresh flowers.

Someone in the kitchen laughed.

Boxes wrapped in gold ribbon sat beside the staircase.

“You’ll put these in the living room,” her mother instructed without looking up.

“And be careful with the ribbons.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and the Harris family will be here on Saturday.”

“I remember.”

“Good.”

Her mother finally looked at her and smiled.

“There’ll be a lot of guests.”

“I know.”

“So try not to disappear.”

“I won’t.”

It sounded less like a request...

and more like a warning.

Breakfast was already on the table.

Her father folded his newspaper.

Julian was scrolling through his phone.

“Morning,” her father said.

“Morning.”

“You’ll help with the decorations after breakfast.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t forget your piano lesson tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

That was usually how conversations with her father ended.

Instructions.

Never questions.

He knew what needed to be done.

He never asked how she was doing.

On the way back upstairs, Iris stopped in front of a family portrait hanging in the hallway.

It had been taken on her sixteenth birthday.

Everyone looked happy.

Even she did.

She remembered the photographer saying,

“Perfect! One more smile!”

The picture captured that smile forever.

It never captured what happened after the camera was put away.

Back in her room, she opened the drawer of her desk and took out a small notebook.

The cover was worn.

The corners were bent.

Inside were pages filled with little things she noticed.

Not secrets.

Just moments.

The first robin of spring.

The old man who always fed the stray cats before feeding himself.

The way rain sounded different against the attic window.

She turned to a blank page.

For a long time...

she didn’t write anything.

Then, in small, careful letters, she wrote,

Three days.

Nothing else.

She closed the notebook.

Outside, another truck pulled into the driveway with more decorations.

The house was getting ready for a celebration.

Iris wasn’t sure what there was to celebrate.

Then…..

You’re the quiet one.

You’re the smart one.

You’re the funny one.

You’re the responsible one.

At first, they sound like compliments.

Then, somehow...

they become expectations.

As children, nobody tells us who we’re supposed to become.

We dream without asking if it’s realistic.

One child wants to become an artist.

Another wants to build robots.

Someone wants to travel the world.

Someone simply wants a quiet little life.

We don’t think about money.

We don’t think about society.

We just dream.

Then we grow up.

Suddenly, everyone has a plan for us.

“That’s just a hobby.”

“Choose something practical.”

“Be realistic.”

“People don’t make a living doing that.”

Slowly, our dreams stop sounding like dreams.

They start sounding like mistakes.

The strange thing is...

Everyone talks about “reality” as if there’s only one version of it.

But whose reality?

The student who dreams of becoming a musician?

The parent who believes success only comes with a medical degree?

The writer who wants to turn words into a career?

The mechanic who genuinely loves fixing engines?

Reality doesn’t look the same through every pair of eyes.

I don’t think we’re born trying to fit into boxes.

I think we learn to.

Little by little, we become the version of ourselves that gets the fewest questions.

The version that disappoints the least people.

The version that’s easier to explain.

And somewhere in the middle of trying to make everyone comfortable...

we forget to ask ourselves:

What do I actually want?

Maybe perfection was never the goal.

Maybe becoming someone everyone approves of isn’t either.

Maybe life isn’t about fitting into the character people wrote for us.

Maybe it’s about having the courage to write our own.

Not because everyone will understand it.

But because we have to live it.

There will always be people who think your dreams are too unrealistic.

Your hobbies are a waste of time.

Your personality is too quiet.

Too loud.

Too different.

Too much.

Too little.

No matter what you do...

someone will think you’re doing it wrong.

Not every expectation comes from control.

Sometimes it comes from love.

Sometimes from experience.

Sometimes from fear.

I don’t think most people are trying to stop us from becoming ourselves.

I think they’re simply hoping we’ll avoid the mistakes they once made.

But their story doesn’t have to become ours.

We all deserve the chance to write our own.

So maybe the question isn’t,

“How do I fit in?”

Maybe the better question is,

“Why am I trying so hard to fit into a box that was never made for me?”

🌿

I wish they did.

Mine never seems to stop.

It’s almost funny how much thinking can happen before saying one sentence.

“Should I say it?”

“No... maybe that’s weird.”

“Wait, what if they misunderstand me?”

“Never mind.”

And just like that, the moment passes.

The conversation moves on.

I stay quiet.

People sometimes assume I’m shy because I don’t have anything to say.

The truth is, I usually have too much to say.

I just don’t know which version of my thoughts deserves to leave my head.

I’ve replayed conversations that everyone else probably forgot.

Wondered if I smiled too much.

Or not enough.

Thought about a simple “hello” as if it were an exam I forgot to study for.

It’s strange.

I can spend hours imagining conversations that never happen.

Yet when the real one finally comes...

My mind goes completely blank.

For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me.

Why does speaking seem so easy for everyone else?

Why does it feel like they know the rules of a game I never learned?

Maybe they don’t.

Maybe everyone is carrying something invisible.

This just happens to be mine.

Being quiet has taught me things, though.

I’ve noticed the people who make sure no one is left out.

The friend who smiles even when they’re having a bad day.

The classmate who looks confident but keeps tapping their foot under the desk.

When you’re not busy trying to be the loudest person in the room, you start noticing the people who also feel unseen.

I’m still learning.

Some days, speaking feels a little easier.

Some days, I overthink every word before I say it.

Progress isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it sounds like finally raising your hand.

Sometimes it’s introducing yourself first.

Sometimes it’s simply believing that your voice deserves space in the conversation.

People often think quiet people have quiet minds.

Maybe that’s the biggest misunderstanding of all.

Sometimes...

The quietest person in the room is carrying the loudest world inside their head.

I’m still learning that not every thought needs to stay trapped inside my head.

Maybe that’s why I write.

Because sometimes it’s easier to let my words find people through a page before they ever find them through my voice.

If your mind is louder than your voice too...

I hope one day that both of us find the courage to let the world hear a little more of what’s been there all along.

So if you ever meet someone who’s quiet... don’t mistake their silence for the absence of a story. Sometimes, the loudest minds are simply the ones no one ever asked to hear.

I don’t mean a quick glance before moving on to the next thing.

I mean really looked.

At the tree outside your window.

The way sunlight falls across your desk every afternoon.

The sound of rain tapping against the roof.

Or even the people you see almost every day.

Sometimes I wonder if the world has become less beautiful...

or if we’ve simply become too busy to notice it.

Somewhere in childhood, even the ordinary felt interesting.

A tiny ladybug on a leaf could keep us entertained for minutes.

We would stare at the clouds, trying to find shapes hidden inside them.

Even a smooth stone from the ground felt like something worth taking home.

Nothing had to be special.

Because almost everything felt interesting.

Somewhere along the way, that changed.

Life became faster.

There was always another assignment.

Another notification.

Another place to be.

Another reason to rush.

And without realizing it, we stopped paying attention to the little things.

The strange part is...

those little things never disappeared.

The birds still sing in the morning.

The sky still changes color before sunset.

Someone still smiles at a stranger.

A parent still asks,

“Have you eaten?”

But because they happen so often, we begin to treat them as ordinary.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Not that life has become ordinary...

but that we’ve stopped seeing how extraordinary ordinary things can be.

I’ve started noticing something.

The days I remember the most aren’t always the biggest ones.

Sometimes it’s a random conversation.

A cup of tea that somehow tasted better than usual.

Finding an old photo.

Watching the rain for a few extra minutes instead of rushing inside.

Those moments don’t seem important while they’re happening.

But somehow...

they stay with us.

Maybe life isn’t made of a few unforgettable days.

Maybe it’s made of thousands of small moments that quietly become memories.

I don’t think noticing changes the world.

I think it changes the way we experience it.

The world has always been speaking.

Through people.

Through nature.

Through silence.

We’ve just become very good at looking...

without really seeing.

So today, before you rush to the next thing...

Pause.

Look around.

You might notice something that has been waiting for your attention all along.

And who knows?

Maybe the most beautiful part of today isn’t something that’s about to happen.

Maybe...

it’s something that’s already here.

🌿

What if the world’s next unforgettable writer has already written hundreds of pages...

...and almost nobody has read them?

We celebrate bestselling authors, literary awards, and books that sell millions of copies.

But we rarely stop to think about the chapters that came before the applause.

Every celebrated writer once faced the same unsettling question:

“Is anyone even reading this?”

“Will anyone ever read this”

And that’s where every writing journey begins.

Maybe years from now, someone you’ll never meet will stumble upon your words and feel understood because of them.

The truth is, every writer begins the same way—not with thousands of readers, but with none.

We admire successful authors, journalists, and poets, forgetting they once stared at a blank page just as we do today.

They weren’t born with an audience.

They built one...

one sentence,

one article,

one reader at a time.

Writing isn’t only about being read.

Sometimes it’s about understanding yourself.

Sometimes it’s about preserving a thought before it disappears.

Sometimes it’s simply about leaving behind a small piece of who you are.

Not every article will go viral.

Not every story will be shared.

And that’s okay.

Because one person who truly connects with your words can matter more than a thousand people who scroll past them.

Every piece you publish quietly records who you were at that moment in your life.

Read something you wrote a year ago.

You’ll probably notice how much you’ve changed.

That’s one of writing’s greatest gifts.

It lets us witness our own growth.

The hardest part isn’t writing.

It’s believing your words deserve to exist before anyone else believes in them.

So write.

Write when the page feels empty.

Write when you’re uncertain.

Write when your audience could fit around a small table.

Keep writing.

Because every well-known writer was once unknown.

Every bookshelf once held a manuscript nobody had read.

Every voice that changed the world began as a whisper.

And every writer...

starts unread.

🌿

Their smile?

Their voice?

Their kindness?

Or... the colour of their skin?

It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?

None of us chose the skin colour; we were born with it. We didn’t stand in line before birth and pick “white,” “brown,” or “black.” Yet somehow, one of the first things people use to judge another person is something they never had the chance to choose.

Why?

Perhaps our minds naturally notice differences. Different languages. Different cultures. Different appearances. There is nothing wrong with noticing them. Diversity is one of the most beautiful things about humanity.

The problem begins when we attach value to those differences.

When “different” quietly becomes “better.”

A person isn’t wiser because their skin is lighter.

A person isn’t kinder because their skin is darker.

A person’s character has never depended on the shade of their skin.

History has shown us how easily people can divide themselves. Sometimes by borders. Sometimes by beliefs. Sometimes by language. Sometimes by skin colour. It’s as if humanity is always searching for another line to draw between “us” and “them.”

But have you ever wondered...

If every human woke up tomorrow with exactly the same skin colour, would discrimination disappear?

Or would we simply find another reason to separate ourselves?

Maybe the problem has never been the colour itself.

Maybe it has always been the labels we attach to it.

The most inspiring people in history came from every corner of the world. Every shade. Every background. Creativity doesn’t belong to one race. Intelligence doesn’t belong to one race. Compassion doesn’t belong to one race.

Neither does courage.

The stories we read, the music we love, the inventions that changed our lives, and the friendships that shape us all come from people whose skin looks different from our own.

Perhaps that’s the point.

The world was never meant to be painted in one colour. Instead, it chose its own colours—unique, simple, and beautiful. Every day, it creates new shades of itself rather than remaining trapped in a single colour, slowly fading away

The next time you meet someone new, ask yourself:

If the world celebrates every shade of sunrise, every season, and every flower... why do we struggle to celebrate the different shades of each other? 🌿