Get Hurt, Cieny

I’ve always known how to smile. It’s one of the first things I learned, before anything else. Smile, and the world smiles back. Smile, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll forget the weight of everything you’re carrying. It’s not that I wanted to hide the truth, not really. But what’s the point of showing people the mess inside when you can just let them believe in the pretty picture? I didn’t ask for this life—this heaviness that seems to follow me wherever I go. The expectations. The responsibilities. The quiet, constant pressure to be everything to everyone. But no one ever tells you how to carry it. How to breathe when the world feels like it’s closing in on you, how to hold on when everything inside is slipping through your fingers. It’s something you figure out on your own. So I smile. I laugh. I do what I can to keep people at a distance, to keep them from seeing the cracks in the mask. It works. Most of the time. But sometimes, like today, it feels too much. The hallway echoes with the chatter of my classmates, the noise drowning out everything else. I try to focus, to remind myself that this is just one more day. One more step forward. But the weight is there, like always, pressing down on my chest. My fingers twitch, and I clutch my books a little tighter, hoping that the physical pressure will drown out the mental one. The surrounding walls are like a maze, lined with the faces of people who have their own burdens, though they look so light. The popular group, laughing loudly near the lockers, the jocks exchanging their usual insults, and then, there’s me. Just here. Trying to keep it together. Trying not to be noticed too much. “Cieny!” The voice slices through the noise, sharp and clear, and before I even have to look, I know who it is. Westley Norvajes. The name alone carries a weight, a power that comes from a family that owns half the town. He’s everything I’m not—arrogant, detached, and always surrounded by the people who worship him. He doesn’t need to try. It’s just who he is. And me? Well, I’m the girl who’s always trying to blend into the background. Always trying to make things easier for others, while my own life is quietly unraveling in the silence. His voice is laced with an almost bored curiosity, but there’s something that feels different this time. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s just the way the sunlight filters through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor. Or maybe it’s the way the weight of everything feels heavier today. I turn around slowly, careful not to let my expression shift too much. I can’t let him see. No one can see. Westley stands there, leaning casually against the locker, as if he owns the whole hallway. His eyes flicker briefly over me before his lips pull into a faint smirk. That smirk... it’s always there, like he’s always in control. Like he knows something you don’t. “What is it, Westley?” I ask, keeping my voice as neutral as I can. I don’t want him to see how much his presence makes me uneasy. He takes a step forward, his gaze still on mine, studying me as if I’m some strange puzzle he’s trying to solve. “I was just wondering if you’re planning on sitting with us at lunch today,” he says, the words casual, but there’s an edge to them I can’t quite place. I blink, surprised. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to me, but it’s always been brief. Small talk. Never anything that felt... personal. But today, there’s something in his voice that feels different. More direct. Like he’s actually interested in my response. I hesitate for a moment, glancing at my watch. The lunch bell rings in the distance, signaling the end of this fleeting moment. I could easily slip away, tell him I have other things to do, as I always do. But something in me, some strange impulse I can’t understand, makes me pause. “I’m not sure,” I say softly, my voice trailing off. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” It’s my usual excuse. And it’s true. There’s always something to distract me. Always some task or responsibility to focus on. It’s my shield, my way of keeping people at arm’s length. But even as I say the words, I feel an odd sense of disappointment in myself. Why do I keep hiding? Why do I make it so easy to be invisible? Westley doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and the silence between us stretches. I can feel his eyes on me, weighing me, trying to figure me out. And maybe, for the first time, I don’t want to be figured out. Not by him. Finally, he shrugs, the movement lazy and dismissive, but there’s something else there—something like curiosity, or maybe just the faintest trace of interest. “Alright,” he says, turning to walk away. “Just... think about it.” I stand frozen for a second, watching his retreating form. His words hang in the air, unanswered. Just think about it. What does that even mean? It’s funny. I’ve always thought of Westley as someone who has everything. Everything but the ability to care, it seems. He’s always been surrounded by a cloud of arrogance, his confidence as solid and untouchable as the town’s skyline. I’ve always stayed out of his way, hidden behind my books, my walls, pretending I didn’t care. But now? Now, I’m not so sure. I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts swirling in my mind. I’ve been dealing with my own storm for too long to let someone like Westley add to it. He’s probably just bored. Looking for something to amuse him, and I’m nothing more than an interesting distraction. But something in his eyes, something about the way he looked at me—like he saw beyond the smile, beyond the walls I’ve carefully built—makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong about him. Maybe he’s not as indifferent as I thought. I force myself to push the thought away. I can’t afford to care. Not about someone like him. My life is complicated enough without adding his brand of chaos to it. But as I make my way to my locker, my mind keeps replaying the brief exchange. The way he spoke to me. The way he looked at me like he was actually seeing me. I don’t know why it matters. But it does. And that scares me more than I want to admit.