CHAPTER 2

I’m in a box full of weirdos. Or maybe I’m the weird one.

Hard to tell.

My classmates are scattered in their own little worlds. They're like puzzle pieces that will never fit together, but somehow still belong to the same box.

The girls are clustered by the windows, applying makeup like their lives depend on perfect eyeliner. Boys in the corner are hunched over their phones, thumbs twitching with the urgency of mobile games. Someone’s pretending to finish homework by copying from a friend’s notebook. The louder ones are trading insults like it’s an actual sport.

They have their “usuals.” Their patterns. Their safe little groups.

And here I am, not part of any pattern.

It’s the last year of senior high. Some of them I’ve known since junior high, some are newer faces, transferees with the desperate energy of people trying to belong. I’ve avoided forming a circle of my own.

It’s not that they ignore me. They talk to me sometimes. They’re not cruel. It’s me. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t have the energy for that constant back-and-forth people seem to crave. And small talk… is like chewing gum that’s lost its flavor, pointless, exhausting.

At first, they found me odd.

I remember the early attempts. Their cheerful greetings, invitations to join lunch tables, forced jokes. I answered politely enough, but one question, one answer, nothing more. They thought it was shyness. It wasn’t. I just didn’t want to be there.

Eventually, they stopped trying.

And that’s fine. They let me be, I let them be.

Silence has weight. It’s mine to keep.

I’m in my usual spot at the last row, head resting on the armchair, earphones in. My playlist drowns them out. I’m halfway through the third song when someone taps my shoulder.

It’s the class president, mouthing, “Nandiyan na si Sir.”

I nod, slide my phone into my bag, take out my pen and textbook.

After the standard greetings, our professor launches straight into Philosophy.

Today’s topic is the human capacity to think. How it separates us from instinct-driven creatures.

“Thinking,” he says, pacing at the front, “is more than reacting. Animals react. Humans reflect. We can question, evaluate, and choose.”

A boy in the second row raises his hand.

“But sir, sometimes people react without thinking. Like when they get angry.”

“That,” the professor says, “is the challenge. We can think — but that doesn’t mean we always do. Choice is what makes it human. The ability to pause and ask. Why am I doing this? What will it mean?”

His eyes sweep the room, landing on me for a fraction too long.

“And sometimes… people choose not to think at all.”

My pen pauses over my notes.

I think about choice. About doing things without asking why. About how sometimes the why doesn’t exist.

The words stick to me longer than they should.

By lunch break, I realize I’ve made a fatal mistake. I forgot my lunchbox. Which means I’ll have to go to the canteen. Which means enduring the chaos that lives there.

I sigh once. Then again for good measure.

The canteen is already packed. Loud. Humid. Smelling of fried oil and too many overlapping perfumes. The kind of place that eats away at your patience.

I join the line. Students pass in waves — some laughing so hard they wheeze, others flushed from the heat. The noise spikes suddenly, sharp enough to make me flinch. A chorus of high-pitched shrieks. Mostly from girls. The kind of sound you’d expect when someone’s favorite celebrity steps into view.

I ignore it. Or try to.

The girls behind me start whispering and giggling, their voices fizzing with excitement. They keep saying a name, over and over, pushing each other forward. I can feel the restless shifting of feet. Someone’s about to try cutting the line.

They shouldn’t bother. I’m two people away from freedom, and I am not giving that up.

Then—

“Amelìa Torelya. Nice to meet you.” The air dips. Noise lowers.

I swear I hear gasps.

It feels like one of those ridiculous high school dramas where the golden boy singles out the invisible girl. Only, I’m not invisible. Just… unbothered. And aloof. Which is not the same thing.

It takes me five full seconds to turn and look.

“Hi, Amelìa Torelya,” he says again — like my name is something he enjoys saying. His teeth are too perfect. His wave too casual, like he isn’t standing directly behind me.

I stare at him for a beat too long, notice the way his lashes catch the light when he blinks. Then it’s my turn to order, and I turn away.

Behind me, he laughs. Low, easy, the kind of sound that slides into your ears and stays there. I pretend I didn’t hear it.

Whispers follow . “They know each other?” and “So she can talk?” Of course I can talk.

He cleared his throat. He's now beside me. I look at him. It's his turn to order food, while I was waiting for mine to be packed. He met my gaze. There, those pretty hazel eyes.

"You are staring too much" He says, brightly.

"Stop talking" to me. I say flatly.

"Is that a bad thing? I'm just naturally friendly" the smile never left his eyes. I sighed. Is it a bad thing?

"Yes" And we're not friends so stop being friendly and stop talking to me– i don't have the energy to voice out the rest completely. I stare at him. Before he could respond I quickly grabbed my food and went straight to my usual spot.

An abandoned three-storey building is my haven. It is located far away opposite my classroom building. This was supposed to be a junior-high building. It is abandoned not because of how old it is, but because the construction hasn't finished it. I discovered this place back when I was in tenth-grade, when I was walking away from the 'civilization' my schoolmates, people to be specific, while hunting for a quiet place I can sleep.

I ascended straight to the rooftop. The breezy wind immediately welcomed me. I placed my bag sa taas nang nakahigang locker. Then I placed my food in one of the big wooden boxes and dragged a wooden chair. I started eating, soon after I dozed off.

"I need you to be completely honest with me iha, anything you say is important. You can trust me" says a man in his forties I think.

I nod. Not minding the other things he said. I am honest about my thoughts, I say what's on my mind, if, and only if I have been asked even if that person is trustworthy or not. So talking to him ain't a problem at all.

" Okay Amelìa, now tell me what happened yesterday" he said with a soothing voice, trying to gain me.

"From when I woke up? When I ate? In school? After school? Where exactly should I start?" My little voice spoke, clueless.

"Simulan natin sa pagkatapos mong gumising at hanggang sa Bago ka matulog. Ano-ano ang mga nangyari at an ang iyong mga nararamdaman"

"Okay" my little self breathed deeply first as she recalls the things that happend yesterday.

"After I woke up from my sleep, I fixed my bed. I brushed my teeth. I went downstairs to greet my mommy and daddy good morning, they both kissed my cheek, and we ate breakfast, and then I took a bath- Should I continue?" A little bit confused.

"Yes, go ahead. How about school? How was school yesterday?"

"Hm, my mommy and daddy drop me to school. Hmm, it was Friday yesterday so we only did p.e and arts. I painted flowers with watercolour. My classmates are very noisy. I don't like it. They are hurting my ears. But they said it's just normal that kids play a lot. So I played with them, but then I got tired. So I went out to the classroom, my teacher was busy checking our work so she didn't see me go out, I think. I went to the school garden, it's just two rooms away from my art room." I saw little me drink the apple just above the table, in front, before continuing.

"I am in the garden and I saw a butterfly, I chased it. But I stopped when I saw two girls hiding in the trees, so I hid also. I don't want them to ask why I was there. Then I saw them watching something on one of the girls. ipad. The girl they're watching is with a small thin rectangular object. She drew lines in her hand- here" as I pointed my uninjured wrist. "And I saw blood coming out through those lines. Then I went back to the art room, and I slept most of the time. Then my daddy sundo me, and when I got home mommy was baking brownies." The little girl paused as she finished her drink first. The man is attentively listening and taking notes, as he patiently waits before the little girl continues.

"I was about to approach my mommy when I saw the sharp silver object, the one you use to cut bread. And then I traced it here" she points her injured wrist and draws a similar cut. "And then a lot of blood came out. I called my mommy, when she saw me she was panicking, holding my hands tightly, she was shouting daddy's name while crying. Then I think I slept and when I woke up I was already in my room with these bandages in my hand. My mommy is beside me still crying. I don't know why. And then I sleep again."

"When you saw the girl doing that to her hand, what were you feeling?" I thought hard before I answered.

"Uhm nothing, I felt nothing"

"Do you know those girls?"

"No, I think they are a lot older than me"

"When you saw the silver object what did you think and feel? Did you imagine those girls?"

"No, I feel nothing"

"What did you feel when you drew a line in that part of your hand?"

"It stings, it hurts. When I drew the line it hurt"

"But your mommy told me you didn't cry?"

"Uhuh"

"Why didn't you cry?"

" I don't know, my daddy also asked me that, should I have cried at that moment?"

"Well you see Amelìa when kids your age are hurt while they are playing, they cry- even with a slight scratch."

"Is that so?" the little girl tried to understand her situation. The doctor nods.

"My mommy cried a lot yesterday, but she wasn't hurt, why?"

"She was hurt Amelìa-here" he pointed his heart "She was hurting while looking at you"

"Is that even possible?" I'm confused.

"Yes, Amelìa. There are different types of pain. There’s the kind your skin feels, like when you scrape your knee or touch something sharp. That’s the pain that makes you pull your hand away and cry because your body is telling you, ‘Something’s wrong, protect yourself.’

Then there’s the kind your heart feels. It doesn’t bleed, but it still hurts...like when someone you love goes away, or when your mother sees you hurt yourself. Her tears aren’t for her body, they’re for her heart.

And sometimes… there’s the quiet kind of pain. The kind that doesn’t shout or sting, but hides somewhere deep inside. It’s the one you don’t understand yet, because your body doesn’t tell you to cry, and your heart hasn’t learned all the ways it can ache. But it’s still there. And sometimes, it’s the hardest one to notice."

"Hmm"

"I'll ask again, when you draw the line in your hands, did it hurt?"

"Yes"

"Did this hurt?" pointing at the heart. She think before she answered...

"No"

"Did you think you were in pain?" She feels herself first, then answered...

"No"

An abrupt guitar strum drags me out of sleep.

I lower my arms from my face and find those hazel eyes again. Wind plays with his hair. His shadow cuts across his features, making him look sharper, more defined. His nose, his jaw. It's unfairly sculpted. And when he smiles, I see them. The faint indentations at the corners of his mouth.

Dimples.

There’s something in his gaze that hooks mine before I can stop it. I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to know.

“Good afternoon, Amelìa Torelya,” he says, his voice wrapped in something playful.

I blink. “Haze.”