Sam's POV
The world outside was painted in shades of gray that morning.Raindrops slid down the windowpane, tracing uncertain paths before melting into one another — a quiet mirror of how Sam felt inside.
She sat at her desk, the faint hum of rain filling the silence of her room. Her notebook lay open in front of her, a blank page staring back, waiting. Normally, words came easily — the way air finds its way into lungs. But lately, her thoughts had been too tangled, too heavy.
Until last night.
She could still hear it — the voice.Soft. Familiar. Like something out of a forgotten memory.
"You write because silence hurts, don't you?"
She didn't know if she had imagined it. She'd been half-awake, half-dreaming — the same state where the fire often returned, where the smell of smoke filled her lungs until she woke up gasping. But this time, there was no fear. Just a strange calm, like the fire wasn't there to burn her — only to light the way.
So she picked up her pen.
And the words came.
"There are things the mouth cannot say,So I let the ink do it for me.It doesn't flinch when I confess,It just listens, quietly."
She read it over once, then again. It wasn't perfect. It didn't need to be. It was hers. The voice hadn't come back since, but she could still feel its echo — a warmth just behind her thoughts, like someone was watching over her, gently guiding her through the fog.
A knock on the door startled her.
"Sam?" Aunt Dena's voice came softly through the wood. "Breakfast's ready, sweetheart."
"Coming!" Sam quickly shut her notebook and tucked it under her pillow.
At the table, Aunt Luna was reading the paper, glasses sliding down her nose. The aroma of coffee filled the air, grounding her again.
"You've been up early a lot lately," Aunt Luna noted without looking up. "Planning world domination?"
Sam smirked faintly. "Something like that."
"Good," Aunt Dena said with a grin. "At least you're not one of those teenagers who think mornings are a personal insult."
Sam laughed quietly. It felt good — strange, but good — to laugh like that again. The air in the house was always warm, always filled with that soft hum of family. But part of her still felt like a ghost among the living — smiling, talking, existing, but not entirely here.
When she left for school, the rain had lightened to a drizzle. She pulled her hood over her head and walked through the damp streets, boots splashing in puddles. The world looked softer under gray skies — gentler somehow.
Liam's POV
The morning had started badly.Worse than usual.
"Do you even realize how irresponsible you've become?" Victoria's voice had cut through the kitchen like glass. Her perfectly manicured nails clicked against her coffee cup as she spoke.
Liam stood by the counter, fists clenched at his sides. "I came home before midnight. What's the problem now?"
"The problem," she snapped, "is that you don't seem to care about this family's image. The Fernandez name means something, Liam. You think your father works this hard for you to throw it away with your temper?"
He laughed bitterly. "Funny. Because last I checked, my father doesn't even see me."
Victoria's expression hardened. "Don't start, Liam."
"Why not? You started the lecture."
"Because," she hissed, lowering her voice, "I'm not your mother. And I don't have to take your disrespect."
Silence. Thick, sharp silence.
Liam's jaw locked. The words hit harder than he expected, even though he'd heard worse. Still, something in his chest cracked open — the same spot that never healed right after his mother's death.
He grabbed his bag and walked out before he said something he couldn't take back.
The storm inside him followed all the way to school.
By the time he reached his locker, the hallways were full of laughter and noise — a sound that grated against his mood. He slammed the locker shut and exhaled slowly, trying to ground himself.
That's when Zoe appeared, her usual bright self, holding an umbrella still dripping rain.
"You look like someone stole your soul," she said, tilting her head.
Liam shot her a look. "Morning to you too, sunshine."
Zoe laughed, unfazed. "Well, it's raining. The least I can do is be the sunshine."
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
"You've seen Sam yet?" Zoe asked, glancing down the hall.
Liam shrugged. "No. Why?"
"Because she's been quieter than a ghost lately," Zoe said. "And I think you should—"
"No," Liam cut in quickly. "Whatever you're about to suggest, no."
Zoe crossed her arms. "You didn't even let me finish."
"I didn't have to. I know you, Zoe."
She raised an eyebrow. "And I know you, Liam. Which is why I'm saying you should talk to her. Properly this time. Not your usual I'm-too-cool-to-care act."
He sighed. "I'm not good at this… people thing."
"Then consider it practice," Zoe said simply, flashing him a grin before walking away.
He groaned quietly. "Why do I even put up with you?"
Her voice echoed from down the hall. "Because I'm the only one who still puts up with you!"
Sam's POV
English class was halfway through when Zoe leaned over and whispered, "Liam looks like he got hit by a thunderstorm this morning."
Sam followed her gaze. Liam was sitting three rows ahead, hair slightly messy, his jaw tight as he scribbled something in his notebook.
Sam frowned. "He always looks like that."
Zoe grinned. "True. But today he looks extra broody. Maybe he's secretly a poet too."
Sam rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips.
The teacher droned on about metaphors and imagery — things Sam usually loved. But her thoughts were elsewhere. She kept thinking about the strange words she'd written that morning. About the whisper that had felt both distant and intimate. About Liam, and how his silence sometimes looked a lot like hers.
When class ended, Zoe tugged her arm. "Come on. I want to show you something."
She led her toward the old literature club room — the one nobody used anymore. It smelled faintly of old books and forgotten dreams. Dust danced in the sunlight that spilled through cracked blinds.
"What are we doing here?" Sam asked.
"Project work," Zoe said innocently. "But also… maybe some peace talks."
Sam blinked. "What?"
Before she could ask again, the door opened — and Liam walked in.
Zoe smiled like she'd just solved world hunger. "There. Now you two can finally talk like normal humans."
Liam froze. "Zoe, what the hell—"
"Play nice," she interrupted sweetly, pushing him further in and shutting the door behind her. "I'll be outside. Don't kill each other."
And with that, she was gone.
Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward.
Sam crossed her arms. "Did she seriously just lock us in?"
Liam checked the handle. "She did." He sighed. "Classic Zoe."
For a few minutes, neither spoke. The rain against the window filled the space between their heartbeats.
Finally, Sam said quietly, "You look like you haven't slept."
He huffed a laugh. "You sound like Zoe."
"Is that an insult?"
"Not exactly."
She hesitated, then asked, "Rough morning?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted to the window. "Something like that."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. I get that."
Something about her tone made him look at her. "You do?"
She shrugged, looking down. "Everyone's fighting something. Some of us just… hide it better."
For a moment, his gaze softened — the storm in him easing slightly. "You ever get tired of hiding?"
"All the time."
He smiled faintly, and it wasn't mocking or smug — it was tired, real. "Guess we've got that in common."
Their eyes met then — for just a second too long. And in that quiet, something unspoken passed between them. Not forgiveness, not friendship — but understanding.
A fragile thread.
Author's POV
When Zoe peeked through the window later, both of them were sitting — not close, but not worlds apart either. Sam was sketching something in her notebook. Liam was watching quietly, pretending not to.
She smiled to herself. Sometimes, the hardest walls only needed a quiet conversation to start cracking.
That afternoon, after Zoe left for her club meeting and Liam for basketball practice, Sam lingered in the courtyard. The air was cool after the rain, the world fresh and glistening. She opened her notebook again, letting the pen move freely this time.
"Some people speak with words,Others with silence.But the rarest ones —Speak through pain,And still manage to sound kind."
The whisper came again, softer than ever.
"Keep writing, Sam. The world needs your voice."
Her chest ached — not from fear this time, but something gentler. Hope, maybe.
She didn't look around. She just smiled faintly and kept writing.
The rain had stopped, but the world still shimmered — like it was listening too.