The auditorium buzzed softly as Autumn stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding at first. Applause rippled through the crowd, but inside, her heart thudded unevenly.
She scanned the faces of colleagues, clients, her parents in the front row, smiling but distant. Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line, and her father sat upright, eyes sharp and expectant.
The award felt heavy in her hands, a trophy of achievement that hadn't filled the hollow inside.
After the ceremony, her parents approached, faces polite but reserved.
"Well done, Autumn," her father said, voice steady. "You've made us proud."
Her mother added softly, "You're so responsible. Such a bright future."
She wanted to tell them that their pride felt conditional earnedonly by accomplishments, not by whom she was beneath perfection.
But the words caught in her throat.
Later, alone in her apartment, she stared at the award on her dresser. The room was quiet, except for the hum of the city beyond the window.
She sank onto the bed, the weight of loneliness pressing down like a physical force.
No hugs. No "I love you just because."
Only achievements. Only expectations.
She reached for her journal and wrote slowly, "What if I'm just a collection of good grades and perfect numbers? What if no one loves the girl behind the success?"
The tears came quietly, like rain slipping through cracks in the windowpane.