The notebook felt heavier in my hands than it had ever seemed. I flipped a page, scanning lines that made sense only to me half-formed thoughts, sketches of things I couldn't name, notes I wasn't ready to speak aloud. Sometimes, it felt like the only thing that understood me.
I pushed myself off the bed and stepped toward the window. The streets of Glora were waking the hum of tires on wet asphalt, the distant bark of a street dog, the shout of a vendor chasing a missed coin. People passed without seeing me, just another shadow among thousands. And maybe that was exactly what I wanted. Loneliness wasn't just a feeling; it was armor. But some mornings, it felt more like chains.
I thought about the nights I walked alone, city lights reflecting off puddles, my hoodie pulled tight. The city never asked for my story, didn't care if I existed. And yet, every corner held whispers someone had heard of Waza, someone remembered the kid who'd stolen a bag, walked out without a scratch, and left a quiet message behind: Don't mess with him. Reputation, they called it. I called it the only proof I'd left that I belonged somewhere, anywhere.
Mom's voice pulled me back. "Breakfast is ready," she said softly, almost like she knew I was somewhere inside my own head. I nodded, swallowing the hollow ache that came from knowing that the world outside was loud, alive, and I was still… waiting.
I grabbed my notebook and followed her to the kitchen, the faint weight of silence settling in my chest again. Even in the busiest streets of Glora, I could feel the emptiness clinging to me an invisible companion that refused to leave.