The alarm buzzed before the sun even touched the curtains. Aria groaned, rolling onto her side and squinting at the glowing red numbers. 5:30 a.m. Another day. Another routine.
She sat up slowly, stretching her arms until her bones gave a soft satisfying crack. The house around her was still silent, the kind of silence she secretly loved — no footsteps, no chatter, no questions. Just the hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the chirping of distant crickets fading into dawn.
Aria slid her feet into her slippers and padded across her small bedroom. Her walls were cluttered with half-finished sketches, sticky notes of quotes she liked, and a single photo frame — a picture of her and her mom, taken years ago before life started feeling like it was passing on autopilot.
By 6:00 a.m., she was in the kitchen making coffee. Not because she liked the bitter taste — she didn't — but because it was her ritual. One scoop, two sugars, stir, sip. Her eyes wandered out the kitchen window, where the neighborhood looked exactly the same as yesterday. Rows of houses with peeling paint, the old man across the street watering his plants too early, a stray cat lounging on the curb as if it owned the block.
She got ready for school slowly, dragging her feet on purpose. The uniform felt stiff, the tie unnecessary, and the walk to the bus stop too long. She tied her dark hair back, slipped in her earphones, and pressed play on her playlist — her favorite escape.
School was… school. Predictable. The chatter of girls in the hallway, the loud slam of lockers, the teachers droning on about assignments. Aria drifted through it all like a shadow, not invisible exactly, but never the center of attention either. She had a couple of friends she laughed with during lunch, but she often found herself gazing out the window instead, wondering if this was all there was.
By the time classes ended, the sky had already started melting into soft orange. Aria walked home alone, backpack heavy but steps unhurried. She passed the small bookstore she always promised herself she'd enter someday, the cracked sidewalk where weeds grew stubbornly, and the familiar corner store with its neon sign flickering.
At home, she curled on the couch with her sketchbook, letting her pencil move without thinking. The shapes always turned into eyes. Watching eyes. She never understood why.
By 10:00 p.m., Aria lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. Another day done. Nothing new, nothing strange. Just her life on repeat.
She didn't know that soon, normal would feel like a memory.