The soft hum of the laptop filled the small apartment as Iris leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes follow the words on the screen. The novel's opening drew her in immediately, A city on the edge of collapse, citizens scurrying like frightened ants, and the ominous whispers of something lurking in the shadows. It was a world so different from her own yet strangely vivid, as if it had been waiting for her to breathe it to life.
She read of the female lead first, poised, calculating, always seeming to be one step ahead. She moved through the chaos with a grace Iris could not imagine having in her own life, where even small tasks demanded the weight of survival. Yet it was not the heroine who captured her attention. It was an extra, a girl also named Iris Hale.
The extra's life mirrored pieces of Iris's own. Bullied at school, timid in the face of confrontation, overlooked despite having a loving family she seemed fragile, yet there was a quiet resilience in the way she endured. Every flinch, every nervous glance, every subtle act of courage that went unnoticed resonated with Iris on a personal level.
She did not linger on the comparison for long. Recognizing herself in the extra felt instinctive, almost involuntary, like catching her reflection in glass she had not realized was there. Iris let the thought pass without naming it, returning to the page as if distance alone could keep the feeling contained.
The extra's trembling in the hallways, the whispered apologies for things she hadn't done, and the constant fear of making a misstep it stirred something protective in Iris. She understood the fear, the need to hide, the longing to be acknowledged. And yet, there was no envy. She did not wish the extra's life for herself; she simply wished to see her survive, to see her rise despite the weight pressing on her shoulders.
The narrative carried her further. Scenes of public humiliation, of classmates' whispers turning into laughter, made her stomach tighten. Iris's hands curled around the edge of the laptop. She could almost hear the taunts, the jeers, feel the sting of being ignored by those who mattered. Her own memories intertwined with the text, painting a dual portrait of neglect and perseverance.
She read on, the outside world fading to nothing. The minor victories of the extra a small retort that earned a pause from a bully, a quiet act of defiance unnoticed by adults felt monumental in the quiet of her apartment. Iris thought of the tiny triumphs in her own life: managing a perfect nutrient solution, coaxing a wilting seedling to bloom, balancing schoolwork and two jobs. The small victories built resilience, a quiet strength forged in overlooked corners.
The story moved steadily, without urgency, without mercy. Iris followed it without rushing, absorbing the pauses as much as the events. There was no reward for endurance in the pages she read, no sudden relief. Only continuation. Somehow, that felt honest.
The extra's family was briefly mentioned loving, yet imperfect. Parents who worried and cared, but sometimes missed the small signs of distress. Siblings who offered companionship, yet occasionally overshadowed her. It reminded Iris of her own family dynamic, where her younger brother was praised endlessly, while her efforts often went unrecognized. She clenched her fists lightly on the keyboard edge, the empathy forming a quiet, burning determination in her chest.
Somewhere in the story, the apocalypse loomed as a backdrop: whispers of societal collapse, a city teetering on chaos, dangers lurking in plain sight. Yet it was not the chaos that gripped her it was the human element, the fragile hearts caught in a world bigger than themselves. She could relate to that. In her own way, she had always been fighting quietly, unnoticed, against the small disasters life hurled at her.
By the time the chapter ended, Iris leaned back slowly, the glow of the screen lingering in her vision. The sense of comfort she expected never came. Instead, something tight coiled in her chest, faint but persistent. The extra's struggles felt too close, too precise, as though the story had reached outward rather than the other way around. Iris pressed her lips together, unsettled by the thought, and told herself she was overthinking it. Stories did that sometimes. They borrowed faces. They borrowed names. They did not look back.
Her gaze drifted toward the window. The city outside moved as usual: cars honking, people rushing, lights flickering. Yet inside her apartment, the world had expanded, becoming richer, more layered, and alive. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Iris felt an unspoken connection, not only to a story, but to a reflection of herself someone fragile yet enduring, overlooked yet unbroken.
She closed the laptop briefly, letting the silence seep in. The apartment felt smaller somehow, her life sharper, her purpose more defined, even if only in tiny, imperceptible ways. The novel had opened a door, and though she had no idea what lay beyond it, she knew she wanted to walk through, one cautious step at a time.