The plaza, once held in hopeful silence, now simmered with emotion.
Some cried with joy.
Others just cried.
All around me, new Arkan-bearers celebrated—families embracing, friends screaming, their skin still glowing.
The glow I never received.
Then, heads turned skyward as a massive blimp drifted into view, its screen displaying a congratulatory message in elegant neon lettering.
"Congratulations to all newly Threaded!"
It was from the Administration.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
I just stood there, staring at the sky—wondering what it meant that I wasn't among them.
Beside me, Yinoh fidgeted awkwardly.
He didn't know what to say. Of course, he didn't.
He glowed. I didn't.
I forced a smile, even as something inside me felt like it was folding in on itself.
"I'm really happy for you, Yinoh," I said. The words sat heavy on my tongue—bitter and metallic. I was happy for him. Or part of me was.
Another part just… hurt. A lot.
He looked at me, unsure. "Thanks, Hashy."
I tried to chuckle. It slipped out thin and cracked, like glass under pressure.
"Hey, cheer up!" I said, voice a shade too light. "I'll just—uh—give it another shot next year. If there's anything left for me."
"Yeah…" he replied, barely above a whisper. Even he didn't sound like he believed it.
We walked home without speaking. Our footsteps fell into sync out of habit.
But nothing about it felt familiar.
At the gate, I stopped.
"Well… see you tomorrow," I said. I tried to smile again, but my face wouldn't cooperate. I couldn't even meet his eyes.
"S-sure," he replied.
He waved, but it was half-hearted—just like my smile.
I watched him go, the glow still clinging to him like a reward.
And me?
All I had left was the duty to pretend I wasn't breaking.
The moment I stepped through the gate, I slowed.
The disappointment had been creeping under my skin the whole walk home. Now it was choking me. Crawling up my throat.
The front door creaked softly as I turned the knob. When I stepped inside, I found Dad fast asleep on the couch. Papers were scattered across the table, and his glasses were still perched precariously on his nose.
He waited for me.
A strange kind of relief washed over me.
I didn't have to explain.
Didn't have to force a smile.
Not yet.
I tiptoed upstairs, each step slower and softer than the last. In my room, I shut the door gently. Locked it.
Then I collapsed onto the bed.
Eyes on the ceiling. No sound. No light. Just the quiet.
Heavy and full.
And then the tears came—hot, aching, and endless.
"Mom…" I whispered to the dark.
The night didn't end; it just grew heavier.
The quiet of my room pressed against me, thick and unyielding.
I stared at the ceiling until my vision blurred, counting breaths I couldn't steady.
Every time I closed my eyes, the ghost of Yinoh's glow burned against my eyelids, mocked by the fading laughter of those the sky had claimed. My own silence wasn't just quiet; it was a weight, the loudest thing in the room. Time didn't pass—it pooled around me, stagnant and cold.
When sleep finally came, it was thin and frayed, offering no refuge from the reality of the dark.
Next day
A sliver of light eventually cut through the dark, and then—
Sunlight clawed its way through the curtains.
It should have felt like a new day, a fresh start, but the warmth on my skin felt unearned.
Everything had changed, yet nothing had.
The sounds of the house began to filter in: the sharp clatter of plates, Dad's heavy footsteps in the hall, the muffled hum of a world that hadn't stopped spinning. It was unbearable in its normalcy. The world had moved on, leaving me suspended in the shadow of the thing I hadn't received—the thing I had failed to claim.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling as I stared at the floor. My eyes were dry, yet they felt like lead.
The sun rose, indifferent to the one left behind. The world moved forward.
But I... I remained exactly where the moonlight had left me.