The sun streamed through the window, illuminating the bustling campus, where laughter and chatter filled the air, momentarily distracting Marcus from the world outside. "BOO!" the sudden fright couldn't help but make the kid flinch before he twisted his neck around to retrieve his headphones back, only to meet a condescending gaze. At least that's what he remembers a crooked smile and scrunched up nose portrays. "Aren't you jumpy? Liwanag, right?" He asked in a more relaxed expression; a subtle smirk, giving the earphones back. "Marcus Ian Liwanag." He muttered, wondering if the other didn't hear him introduce himself a while ago, gingerly pressing the muffs back against his ears.

The other dude was left tilting his head to the side, not really expecting such a formal response. The rumors must be true that the transfer student was mentally handicapped then. It was rather unexpected considering that Marcus was apparently a scholar. "Can you even hear me through those?" The latter spoke in a slightly raised voice, which Marcus replied with a nod. "I'm sensitive to sounds, that's why I need them." He said in a sheepish manner, keeping his eyes downcast. No wonder he recoiled a while ago.

"Well, I'm August. August Jett Rivera." The guy spoke, followed by a light snicker, putting his hand out which Marcus laid his eyes on for some seconds. The new kid's lack of social skills seems to make the others giggle, which he unfortunately couldn't understand why. "You must be autistic." August blurted out, dropping his hand after being rejected; which abruptly made the other relax. "Yeah, how do you know? I have Asperger's and—" interrupted, Marcus paused as he wondered if he heard the word right.

"Retarded." With that, he was left wondering what he did or said wrong during their short interaction. Marcus really thought he'd make a friend now, but what's the difference? It seems like he’s always going to be a strange one.

The first days of school are always challenging for any introvert, especially for Marcus, a new scholar at UP Diliman from a public school. Despite the privilege of his position, he quickly learned that every situation has its ups and downs. At just 16, attending college felt surreal, a result of his advanced intellect that allowed him to skip several years of high school. Often labeled a “prodigy,” Marcus faced unique struggles; his autism profoundly shaped his personality and skills. With an eidetic memory, he excelled in academics, making his enrollment in computer science seem effortless. Yet, his social awkwardness— his inability to read emotions or grasp humor— isolated him from his peers. While professors admired his brilliance, his difficulty in connecting with others left him friendless in a sea of new faces.

It was probably what upsets him the most. Being an alien. He’s not even as affected when his class started to make fun of his appearance and behavior, he was already accustomed; actually expecting them to do so. Liwanag was a scholar for a reason, it’s not like he could afford such a privilege of attending the UP Diliman, when he couldn’t even buy his own uniform and shoes— he had to use his older brother’s.

August's focus was particularly fixed on Marcus, relentlessly spreading rumors that he had cheated on his scholarship exam. There’s just no way someone with a developmental disability could effortlessly outshine him in academics. The taunting and discrimination didn’t end in person; the younger had become Rivera’s muse for online harassment as well.

Marcus recently found out that the latter was harassing him in social media as well, and as much as he was confused on what he did to trigger August to do so, he couldn’t help but feel humiliated and self-conscious.

“The freak couldn’t even hold an eye contact!”

“Clown thinks he’s better than me. He doesn’t even have a single friend.”

“Mr. Fidget’s the teachers’ pet.”

“Last time I remembered, aliens don’t belong here”

“Loser Loner don’t know sarcasm”

Everyone’s got a limit, and at some point, Marcus reached his. He had been thriving, focused on his own path, and initially indifferent to the discrimination he faced. However, he has a reputation for being a stubborn mule; relentless and dedicated in keeping his peace and path clear. He was going to succeed and he knew it; regardless of August’s disdain, each taunt only stoked the flames of determination within him.

As the days passed, Marcus’s frustration simmered beneath the surface. He’d had enough of August’s relentless harassment and the way it made him feel small. Deep down, he knew the truth: Rivera’s smug confidence was a façade, fueled by jealousy. Rumor had it that August’s grades weren’t earned but rather handed to him by his father, Professor Adam Rivera. The comparison stung, igniting a fury in August that was misdirected at Marcus.

One evening, after a particularly harsh day filled with taunts, Marcus sat at his desk, the glow of his computer screen illuminating his determined expression. With his eidetic memory and advanced hacking skills, he formulated a plan to teach August a lesson, a taste of the humiliation he’d endured for far too long.

After some deft maneuvering, Marcus infiltrated August’s social media account. The thrill of control surged through him as he crafted a post that would expose the truth. He typed quickly: “Hey everyone, just a reminder that not all grades are earned! Some are handed down from Dad. #Cheater #NotSoSmart #AugustRivera.”

With a deep breath, he hit “send.” The post went live, and within moments, notifications exploded. Comments flooded in, echoing shock and disbelief. Marcus leaned back, satisfaction and anxiety swirling within him. He could only imagine the chaos that would unfold as the truth unraveled around August.

In the days that followed, August's carefully constructed image began to crumble. Classmates who had once laughed at Marcus now turned their attention to Rivera, their voices filled with ridicule. Marcus watched as the fallout unfolded, feeling a strange mix of triumph and unease. He’d sought revenge, but the reality of his actions weighed heavily on him.

Yet, beneath that weight, a new resolve ignited. August had picked the wrong kid to mess with. Marcus wasn’t just a target; he was a force to be reckoned with. This was the turning point, the moment he would rise above the labels and expectations.

Once I stood tall in the line of fire,

With brothers by my side, hearts set to inspire.

We charged for freedom, a flag held high,

But now I’m tethered to wheels, beneath a watchful sky.

Each morning, I tie my laces with care,

Though the ground feels distant, and life’s less fair.

A soldier once proud, I face the world anew,

Yet eyes glance away, as if I’m not true.

Disappointment weighs heavy, a cloak made of shame,

For valor in battle, I earned no such name.

My friends lost their lives, their courage aflame,

While I’m just a figure, a whisper of blame.

They look down from above, their stares cold as stone,

As if I’m a burden, forever alone.

I fought for their freedom, yet here I remain,

A symbol of loss, wrapped in anger and pain.

I miss the embrace of the earth beneath feet,

The rush of the wind, the thrill of the beat.

But here in my chair, I find a new fight,

To show them my spirit still soars like a kite.

The irony burns in this battle of life,

Where honor's reduced to whispers of strife.

I tie my own laces, though I cannot stand,

Defiant and strong, I still make my stand.

So stare if you must, but know I’ve survived,

In a world that forgets, yet somehow, I thrive.

For every brave heartbeat that echoes inside,

Is a testament woven with courage and pride.

Louie sat cross-legged on the faded carpet of his cramped bedroom, surrounded by a chaotic array of crayons and half-finished drawings. At just seven years old, he had discovered a way to translate his turbulent emotions onto paper, each stroke a whisper of the chaos that enveloped him.

His parents, Ethan and Nora, were locked in a never-ending battle. Ethan's bipolar disorder swung like a pendulum, his moods shifting unpredictably from joy to fury. Louie didn’t understand why his father turned into a storm, hurling words that felt like thunder. All he knew was that the shouting made his heart race and filled his small body with dread.

Nora often seemed lost in her own fog, neglecting Louie's needs as she battled her own demons. Her eyes, once vibrant, were now dull and distant, reflecting a world that felt too heavy for her to bear. Louie was a ghost in their home, drifting in and out of shadows, yearning for a connection that was always just out of reach.

“Louie! Get away from the door!” Ethan's voice boomed one evening, reverberating through the house like an earthquake. Louie flinched, retreating to the sanctuary of his room, clutching his stuffed rabbit, Mr. Whiskers. He knew that noise meant trouble, but he didn’t know how to make it stop.

In the dim light, Louie pressed his teeth into his forearm, his small frame shaking as he tried to contain the swirling chaos inside him. It was a misguided attempt to transform his internal pain into something tangible, hoping the physical hurt would shield him from the emotional turmoil.

At school, Ms. Everly noticed the marks on Louie’s arms—deep, red impressions from his desperate bites. One morning, she knelt beside him, concern etched across her face. “Louie, sweetheart, can you tell me about your drawings?” she asked gently, her voice a soft balm against his turmoil.

He shrugged, looking down at his paper. “Just pictures,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. The drawings depicted a dark, twisted house, windows blackened, surrounded by shadows—a reflection of his hidden fears.

“Louie,” she pressed softly, “I’m here to help you. You don’t have to hide.”

But the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he continued to draw, pouring out his confusion in vibrant colors, the monsters in his imagination more comforting than the reality outside.

As the weeks dragged on, the arguments at home grew louder, more violent. Louie retreated further into his art, creating chaotic scenes filled with jagged lines and stormy skies. One evening, the fighting reached a crescendo—shouts and crashes filled the air, drowning out his thoughts. A vase shattered, echoing like a gunshot, and Louie pressed his ears against the floor, trembling.

“Stop it! You’re scaring him!” Nora’s voice broke through the chaos. Louie’s heart sank. He wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, but the words were trapped inside. Instead, he bit his arm harder, hoping to drown out the pain in his chest.

The next day, Ms. Everly found him drawing again, his latest piece a blackened tree, its branches twisted and gnarled against a stormy backdrop. Her heart ached as she studied his work. “Louie, I think we need to talk to someone who can help,” she said softly, her hand gently squeezing his shoulder.

That afternoon, the police arrived, their uniforms a stark contrast to the chaos of his home. They were kind, speaking softly, and Louie felt a flicker of hope amidst his fear. “We’re going to take you somewhere safe,” one officer said, kneeling to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

As they drove away, Louie gazed out the window, watching the streets blur into a wash of colors. He was leaving behind the only home he knew—a home filled with shadows and screams—yet he felt an unfamiliar lightness, a sense of possibility.

The Johnsons, his new foster family, welcomed him with open arms. Their home was filled with laughter, warmth, and the scent of freshly baked cookies. “We’re so happy to have you, Louie,” Mrs. Johnson said, her smile bright and genuine. “You’re safe here.”

At first, Louie struggled to accept their kindness. The warmth felt foreign, a language he hadn’t learned to understand. He watched from the sidelines, unsure of how to navigate this new world filled with love and support.

“Can I help with dinner?” he asked one evening, his voice tentative but hopeful. Mrs. Johnson beamed. “Of course! We’d love that. Let’s make spaghetti together.”

As they cooked, Louie felt a flicker of joy. The rhythm of their laughter intertwined with the bubbling of pasta, creating a melody he had long forgotten. “What do you like to draw?” Mr. Johnson asked, handing Louie a spoon.

Louie hesitated, the shadows of his past creeping back. “I… I draw what I feel,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

“Art is a wonderful way to express yourself,” Mrs. Johnson encouraged. “We’d love to see your drawings.”

With their encouragement, Louie began to open up, sharing his art with them. Each piece became a bridge, connecting him to this new family. Slowly, he transformed his chaotic, dark drawings into vibrant depictions of joy—a garden full of colorful flowers, children playing under a bright sun.

One day, while painting in the sunlit backyard, Louie turned to Mrs. Johnson. “I think I want to be an artist when I grow up,” he said, a newfound confidence shining in his eyes.

“That sounds amazing, Louie!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up. “You have such a gift. Keep creating; you can express anything you want through your art.”

Encouraged, Louie poured his heart into his drawings, turning the shadows of his past into symbols of resilience. He painted families laughing, sunflowers reaching for the sky, and rainbows arching over serene landscapes.

With the Johnsons, Louie learned that love didn’t have to be loud or chaotic; it could be gentle and nurturing. They celebrated his creativity, hanging his drawings on the refrigerator like trophies of triumph. “Look at this one!” Mr. Johnson said one evening. “You’ve captured so much joy here, Louie.”

As he listened to their laughter, Louie realized that healing was not a straight path but a winding journey. The shadows of his past still lingered, but they were softened by the light of love and acceptance that surrounded him.

One night, as he lay in bed clutching Mr. Whiskers, Louie whispered into the darkness, “I think I’m starting to feel okay.” He closed his eyes, envisioning a future painted in vibrant colors—a world filled with laughter, understanding, and endless possibilities.

As the sun set, casting warm golden light across the sky, Louie felt the weight of his past gradually lifting. He knew he was on a path toward healing, one where he could finally find his voice and embrace the life he had always dreamed of. Gradually, his little mind decided to let go of his memories; up until he couldn’t remember the last time someone yelled.

In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his new family, Louie smiled in his sleep, the promise of hope shimmering like stars in the night sky.

—END—

Now, typically, stories like this unfold through the lens of the powerless and the oppressed. But not this time.

Princess Astrid of Denmark was a tempest in a tiara—headstrong, spoiled, and utterly convinced of her entitlement. As she approached her sixteenth birthday, her rebellious spirit was both a source of pride and frustration for her older brother, Lauge. A future king, he felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, and he was determined to prepare his sister for the realities that lay beyond their gilded walls.

Their parents, embroiled in a fierce war with the Germans, barely noticed Astrid’s defiance. The echoes of conflict filled the castle, where discussions of strategy and alliances drowned out the laughter of children. Lauge often found himself longing for the freedom he once tasted—sneaking out under the cover of darkness, discovering the world outside the castle's confines. He knew all too well that ignorance would only lead to a painful awakening for Astrid if she remained cloistered.

One moonlit night, with the stars twinkling like diamonds above, Lauge decided it was time to awaken Astrid’s senses. He burst into her lavish chamber, where she lounged on a chaise, scrolling through the latest gossip from the court, a smirk dancing on her lips.

“Get dressed. We’re going out,” he commanded, his voice firm.

“Out? Like a commoner?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes, her fingers pausing on the page.

“Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Exactly. It’s time you see what lies beyond the castle walls,” he replied, crossing his arms. “You need to understand the world that you’ll one day lead.”

With a mixture of annoyance and curiosity swirling within her, Astrid reluctantly complied. She slipped into a simple dress, far less extravagant than her usual attire, and they slipped out through a hidden passage known only to them. The cool night air invigorated her skin, awakening a sense of adventure she hadn’t felt in years.

As they made their way to the town, the lively sounds of music and laughter grew closer, weaving through the air like an enchanting melody.

When they arrived, Astrid’s senses were bombarded. Bright stalls adorned with colorful fabrics and fragrant foods surrounded her, and the joyful shouts of vendors beckoned her to explore. The townsfolk danced and sang, their spirits unbroken despite the hardships that loomed over them. For the first time, she felt the pulse of life—raw, unfiltered, and beautiful.

Lauge watched as her eyes widened with wonder, a mixture of pride and sadness swelling in his heart. “This is what you have, Astrid. This joy, this resilience. It’s easy to forget behind the walls.”

“It's… incredible,” she breathed, taking a tentative step forward. “I never knew it could be like this.”

Just then, they passed a group of children playing with a worn-out ball, their laughter ringing through the night. One little girl, her dress tattered but her smile bright, kicked the ball toward Astrid. It rolled to her feet, and the girl looked up, her eyes sparkling with hope.

“Will you play with us?” she asked, her voice full of innocence.

Astrid hesitated, her royal upbringing making her uncertain. But Lauge nudged her gently. “Go on. It’s just a game.”

With a hesitant smile, Astrid kicked the ball back, laughter erupting from the children. For a moment, she felt a sense of belonging that had always eluded her within the castle's confines.

But the night was not without its challenges. As they wandered through the bustling streets, a sudden commotion caught their attention. A group of townsfolk gathered, voices raised in fierce argument over dwindling resources and the looming threat of war. Astrid felt a knot tighten in her stomach as she listened to the frustration spilling from their lips. This was the world she had never seen—the struggles, the anger, the desperation.

“What do we do?” she whispered, her earlier bravado faltering as she gripped Lauge’s arm.

Lauge took a deep breath, his expression serious. “We listen. We learn. We can’t change everything tonight, but knowing is the first step.”

As they stepped closer to the crowd, the tension escalated. A man shouted, his face flushed with anger. “We can’t keep living like this! They care more about their crowns than our lives!”

Astrid’s heart raced as the atmosphere shifted, a palpable energy crackling in the air. Suddenly, a shout rang out, and chaos erupted—a scuffle broke out among the townsfolk, fists flying as frustration boiled over. Astrid clutched Lauge’s arm tighter, her pulse quickening as they sought refuge in a nearby alley.

“Lauge, we need to go back!” she urged, fear flashing in her eyes.

But he held her steady, a determined glint in his gaze. “No, Astrid. This is reality. We can’t turn away.”

In that moment, surrounded by the roar of voices, she felt something awaken within her—a flicker of empathy, of understanding. The weight of her privilege pressed down on her, but so did the thrill of knowing she could no longer remain in ignorance.

As dawn broke, casting a soft light on the remnants of the night’s chaos, they found themselves at a crossroads, standing in the quiet aftermath of unrest. Astrid looked at Lauge, a newfound determination in her eyes. “I want to help. I want to understand.”

He smiled, pride swelling in his chest. “Then be a proper princess. Use your voice. Don’t shy away from the truth.”

But just as they stepped out of the alley, a figure emerged from the shadows—tall and imposing, eyes fierce and unyielding. “You don’t belong here,” the palace guard growled, blocking their path, his voice a low rumble. The air thickened with tension.

Astrid’s heart pounded in her chest, caught between fear and resolve. “We were just—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, his gaze shifting to Lauge. “You know better than to bring her here. It’s dangerous.”

Lauge straightened, the weight of his title heavy on his shoulders. “She deserves to see the truth, even if it frightens her. I’m old enough, and I kept her safe.”

The guard hesitated, his expression softening as he regarded Astrid, who stood defiantly beside her brother. In that moment, she realized the path they had embarked on was not just an adventure; it was a journey of awakening—a chance to bridge the chasm between their lives and those of the people outside the castle.

And as the sun rose behind them, illuminating the cracks of the cobblestone streets, Astrid understood that their journey was only just beginning—a path fraught with challenges and unexpected allies, where the line between privilege and responsibility blurred; In their separate worlds, the rich and the poor existed—two sides of a coin, forever spinning, but never quite meeting.

—END—

Setting: A modest living room in a suburban home. The room is comfortable but cluttered, showing signs of family life: magazines on the coffee table, a few family photos on the wall, and a half-eaten dinner on the table. It’s evening, and the lights are low. A clock ticks in the background.

Characters:

Ethan - An 18-year-old college freshman. He’s bright but withdrawn, with an air of frustration and sadness. He wears a grey hoodie, and his posture is slouched, as if carrying an invisible weight. He was sleepless, with dark circles under his eyes, and his pale complexion was starting to become a norm sight.

Dad (Paul) - Ethan’s father, in his late 40s. He’s an accountant, practical, and very set in his ways. He doesn’t talk about feelings much, but he tries to be supportive. He has a buffed and fit body type and a stoic demeanor.

Mom (Sarah) - Ethan’s mother, in her early 40s. She’s warm but a bit uptight. She’s been trying to reach Ethan for some time and is getting frustrated by his distance. She’s a bit shorter than her son, but she still treats him like a young boy.

-Scene begins with Ethan sitting on the couch, slouched over his phone. His parents are sitting at the dinner table, trying to make small talk, but it’s clear they’re concerned. There’s an awkward silence in the air.-

Sarah: (gently, trying to break the silence) Ethan, you haven’t touched your dinner.

Ethan: (without looking up, distracted on his phone) Not hungry.

Paul: (snaps, not unkindly) Come on, kid, you’ve got to eat. You’re wasting away in front of us. You don’t have any energy if you don’t take care of yourself.

Ethan: (quietly, with a touch of irritation) I’m fine, Dad.

Sarah: (softly) Ethan, we’ve noticed you’ve been distant lately. You used to— (she pauses, struggling to find the right words)—you used to be excited about things. Art, remember? Your sketches? Your projects?

Ethan: (sighs deeply, looking down at his phone, almost like he’s avoiding the conversation) I don’t have time for that stuff anymore.

Paul: (concerned, trying to steer the conversation) You’ve got your architecture portfolio to work on. You know it’s a big deal. Getting into a good school, this is important.

Ethan: (angrily, now looking up from his phone) I don’t care about architecture! I never wanted to do that.

(There’s a silence. Ethan’s frustration fills the room, but his parents look taken aback by his outburst.)

Sarah: (gently, trying to understand) But why didn’t you tell us? You’ve always been so talented with drawing. Why didn’t you—

Ethan: (cutting her off, louder now) Because you guys don’t listen. You don’t hear me. (pauses, shaking his head, voice cracking) It’s like none of this matters. Just… just get good grades, get into a good school, and everything will be fine, right? Well, it’s not fine. I hate it. I hate it all.

(The room goes tense. Ethan stands abruptly and walks toward the window, looking out, as if hoping to escape his own thoughts.)

Paul: (with growing frustration but a softer tone) Ethan, we’re trying to help you. You’re throwing away your future. You’ve got a path laid out for you—a good path. You can’t just give up on it.

Ethan: (snaps, turning back toward his parents) I’m not giving up on anything! I’m burned out, Dad. I’m suffocating. You don’t get it. I’m just—(he stops, realizing he’s about to break down)—I’m tired. I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not.

(There’s a beat. Ethan lowers his head, feeling vulnerable. His parents exchange a quick, concerned glance.)

Sarah: (softly) Ethan, you don’t have to be something you’re not. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.

Paul: (finally stepping in, more quietly, trying to meet Ethan halfway) Maybe we’ve been too focused on what we thought was best for you. But we didn’t realize… (he pauses, his voice softer than usual) we didn’t realize you were hurting like this.

Ethan: (shaking his head, voice hoarse) You never asked. You just—just assumed I’d go along with it.

(Ethan sits down on the couch again, exhausted. His voice drops to a whisper.)

Ethan: I can’t do it anymore. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t even know what I want.

(A long silence. Sarah moves closer, sitting beside Ethan. She gently places a hand on his shoulder.)

Sarah: Ethan… honey, you don’t have to have everything figured out. You’re allowed to be lost. You’re allowed to feel like this.

Paul: (after a long pause, quietly, to himself more than anyone) I… I should have seen it. All this time, I thought you were just being difficult. But maybe… maybe I was the one being difficult.

Ethan: (sighs, wiping his eyes) I’m scared. I’m scared of disappointing you both. But I’m also scared of losing myself.

Paul: (pauses, swallowing hard, and then says in a voice that’s uncharacteristically soft) I’m sorry. I know I’m not good at this… talking about feelings stuff. But you don’t have to go through this alone. We’re here. If you want to talk. Or even if you just want to sit with us.

Sarah: (her voice soft and nurturing) Whatever you need, Ethan. You don’t have to be perfect for us.

(Ethan looks at both of them, a long moment of silence hanging in the air. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders seem to relax slightly. He’s still not okay, but there’s a shift—an understanding. For the first time in a long while, he feels like it’s okay to not have all the answers.)

Ethan: (quietly, almost to himself) I think… I think I need help.

(His parents nod, relieved but also deeply moved. They sit in silence together, a family bound by love, but now starting to understand the weight that has been carried for so long.)

End Scene.

This scene illustrates Ethan’s internal struggle with his passion for art and the external pressure to pursue a more "practical" career. It portrays the emotional toll of ignoring mental health and how a lack of open communication leads to isolation. The turning point comes when Ethan admits he needs help—a crucial moment in breaking the stigma surrounding men’s mental health and emotional vulnerability. The parents, especially the father, have to face their own shortcomings in understanding their son’s struggles, and in the end, they begin to create a space where it’s okay to not be okay.

In the playground where laughter spins bright,

I see friends running, a joyful sight.

But sometimes their smiles slip away,

When I walk up, and they turn, stray.

My skin is a canvas, painted deep,

But why do their eyes flicker, and then they leap?

I giggle and wave, my heart full of cheer,

Yet in their small glances, I sense a strange fear.

We’re all just kids, with dreams in our eyes,

Building tall castles beneath endless skies.

So why does my laughter bring whispers and stares,

As if my presence is heavy, a burden that wears?

I try to play tag, but the rules seem to change,

The way they step back feels so very strange.

“Do they see me differently?” I ponder and sigh,

In a world of colors, why can’t we just fly?

Sometimes I wish I could paint with their hues,

To blend in the sunlight, and dance in their shoes.

But here I stand, just a child wanting fun,

Wondering why fears seem to weigh a ton.

So I’ll keep on smiling, though confusion runs deep,

In a playground of innocence, where dreams shouldn’t sleep.

Maybe one day, when they look in my eyes,

They’ll see just a friend, beneath the disguise.

With a mind that's sharp,

And a skill set to envy,

I'm a wasted potential,

That's the reality.

It's a tragedy, really,

For I'm an overachiever,

With a passion to prove

And yet,

I'm a procrastinator,

With a lack of motivation to move

I have the potential,

To rise above the rest

And yet, I'm held back,

By not trying my best.

Arts, music, writing, and academics,

I'm unsure, why I can't write my own lyrics.

And it's in these moments,

When I see what I'm wasting,

That I realize how it's a paradox,

It's so clear, and yet I'm confusing.

"Just in case"

My mind is hazy yet wired,

I am restless, I am tired.

No wish to sleep, I'd rather stay awake.

11:56 .. 1:43,

Then suddenly it's 3:51 already.

A blink of my eyes,

Time quickly skips past me.

But I am no insomniac,

I just want to be free.

For me, to rest is to die,

For sleeping means cutting my soaring wings to fly.

The bursts of dopamine,

That's quick and fleeting,

They keep me from drowning in a sea of overthinking.

With a phone in hand,

Like a secret place with rainbow sand.

A sweet sense of comfort;

Writing stories,

Reading books,

For, I always gets overlooked.

Yet, the moment it's ripped away,

A burst of feelings, too many to say.

The world looks dull,

And death seems nice,

For this soul,

lost and purposeless of mine.

I procrastinate,

I wonder why,

While I delay,

While I stall,

The hours fly by...

Perhaps "just in case"

Is just a silent cry.

"Bella," Claudia spoke in a weary voice, calling for her 10 year old daughter, all ready for her 12 hour shift duty at a local restaurant by the city. "Feed your sister, will you?" She requested, kissing Isla by the forehead who's blissfully drawing on the floor. The woman, though exhausted, plastered a smile on her face, looking grim and gaunt. "I already thawed the nuggets, you just have to fry them, alright?" She instructed in an agitated manner, walking over Bella, looking jaded with a stiff smile. "Promise you'll be home early today?" The girl asked, noticing the discoloration of her mom's foundation, failing to cover a bruised spot by the corner of her lips. This time, Bella no longer asked what happened, instead, she made sure to gently smudge it with her thumb, spreading it well. "I'll try my best sweetheart.. " Claudia promised in a solemn voice, pressing a kiss against Bella's cheek. "I love you guys, take care of Isla for me please..?" She reminded her eldest one last time before making her way out of the door.

Bella made her way towards the window, silently pondering if her mom would really get home early today. Ah, she forgot to remind her to buy butter and bread; Isla loved those. She contemplated whether she should run after her mother and tell her, perhaps Claudia would be more likely to try and arrive home earlier, in case she wanted to make Isla happy. Instead, Bella went over to her sister, hovering over the painting she made. "What are you making?" She asked in curiosity as the 4 year old gave a bright smile. "It's you, sissy." She exclaimed in excitement. Isla was making a portrait of Bella, looking all happy under the sun, chasing what seems to be a butterfly. "I should see what flowers we have!" The girl figured, making her way towards the door. "No, Isla, we can't go out, remember?" Bella reprimanded, gently pulling her back. "Why don't you help me cook, hm?" She suggested instead, keeping Isla ignorant as to why. Thankfully, the kid obediently followed.

Bella doesn't really know when exactly she figured out what was happening. After all, she's always been aware, observant, and mature. She had to grow up faster and raise herself ever since she was old enough to be left alone. Bella even learned to take care of her mother as well, considerate enough to make sure she's healthy the best she could. At the age of 6, when Isla was born, Claudia gave birth in the same room with Bella who witnessed everything, afraid to even call for an ambulance. Thankfully, the birth of her youngest daughter went well, immediately moving out of town, clearly hiding away from the baby's father. Bella eventually learned how to take care of Isla, thoughtfully helping her mother around since she had to work. Throughout the whole pregnancy, her mother was able to hide away from her boyfriend, who Bella figured was the person who kept hurting her.

At first, she would repeatedly ask her mother why she would cry herself to sleep or come home late with a bruise or two. However, Claudia would either say that she fell or had a little accident, eventually hiding her injuries from her daughter with makeup. Naturally, Bella realized that her mother didn't want her to ask anymore, so she didn't. Bella was aware that her mom needed help and that she was getting exhausted. Over time, she wondered if her and her sister were adding weight to her mother's problems. She would try her best to shoulder Isla all by herself, pouring her energy to raise her sister as a good girl she wanted her to be. Bella was under the impression that she was helping her mom, hoping that she would no longer distance herself by arriving home late. In her eyes, Claudia would avoid going home early, because that would mean she's gonna have to deal with her daughters. However, she could hardly arrive any earlier, making Bella develop this fear that one day, she would no longer go home, finally giving up on her and her sister because of how tired her mother is.

Unfortunately, Bella remained waiting as usual, sitting by the couch, brushing over Isla's hair. The poor kid had already fallen asleep by her sister's lap, looking tranquil and comfortable. For a moment, Bella regrets not reminding her mom the butter and bread, if she did, perhaps Claudia would be here by now. Sometimes she really is early, making the 10 year old repeatedly hope that today she would be.

Eventually, by the time Claudia finally arrived, it was already midnight and Bella had fallen asleep sitting up by the couch. She was disheveled and exhausted, her lipstick was smudged, and her mascara had become runny because of the sweat and tears. Her boyfriend had found her again, somehow tracking her down, gradually getting a hold of her. Claudia barely got away this time, thinking that she should pack again so she can move with her daughters. "Oh, my babies.. " She uttered softly, tears streaming down her eyes. She had failed them again. Claudia saw Isla's sketch, sitting by the table. It only consists of her and her older sister, probably unable to see her mom with the picture. Claudia had been hurting for a while now, thinking that she would never escape her boyfriend. In her eyes, she had always dragged her daughters around with her problems, when it's clear that they're better off without her. Heaven knows how much she loves the girls, but she can't help but drown in guilt and regret.

Would it be a selfless thing if she abandoned them now and took all the burden and war, leaving her daughters with peace and without a mother? Or was it a selfish thing to escape the burden and guilt of being a bad mother? Surely Bella can take care of Isla, she always does. Claudia's always proud of the girl, but she could never take the credit of raising her like that in the first place. Her boyfriend didn't know their existence, they would be safer without her. "I'm so sorry... Mommy loves you.. " She whispered in a faltering voice, her heart breaking in pieces as she pressed a long kiss on the foreheads of her princesses. And there she goes, abruptly packing her things and abruptly leaving the house. Claudia took one last glimpse of her children before running away with tears in her eyes.

The morning arrived soon after, draping the girls with a cold blanket of emptiness and a dull living room. "Sissy?" Isla asked in a sullen voice, rubbing her eyes with her small fists. "Where's mommy?" She followed, understanding that their mother would have carried and transferred both of them by the bed. However, they stayed on the couch. Bella was hit with an overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety, abruptly pushing Isla off or her, scurrying around the house. Isla followed suit, searching for their mother. "She's not home, Sissy!" She exclaimed with a frown after looking around. At this point, Bella was already on the verge of tears, staring out the window as she bit her nails. Isla couldn't grasp the fact that they were abandoned, only thinking that perhaps their mom would eventually arrive home. "It's okay.." She consoled her crying sister, sitting beside her, staring out the window. "Mommy would come back.. " Isla added. However, Bella knew she wasn't. She already checked Claudia's closet, which welcomed her empty and cold. Their mother had left, finally giving up on them.

Isla waited the whole day, staring out the window as she heard her sister's sobbing by the couch, helplessly hugging herself. Bella was inconsolable, filled with a hopeless void of thought. It was her nightmare come true, cold and cruel. She had done everything to help, but it wasn't enough, their mother couldn't fight to keep them anymore, wearing exhausted. Bella's exhausted too, but she didn't give up on Isla, did she? "Sissy, please drink some water.. " The 4 year old asked in desperation, almost welling with tears as well. It hurt her seeing Bella broken, and she wanted to help as well. Bella thankfully accepted, sniffling and hiccuping as she quenched her thirst. "Please stop crying?" Isla asked, her eyes glassy and desperate. However, Bella could only cry more. "I'm sorry, Isla.. " She shuddered in a breaking voice. "I'm so tired.. I don't want to be here anymore.. " Bella followed as her little sister wrapped her in a hug. "Where do you want to go, sissy?" She asked, only wanting to help and ease her pain. "We should go out and play.. " Isla suggested, but Bella only shook her head. "No, baby... We can't leave.. " She reminded her sister, still living up to her mother's orders.

Isla was tempted to go out and somehow look for their mom, wanting Bella to stop crying. However, as hours ticked by, Claudia never came, leaving her daughters hungry. Bella couldn't find the strength to leave the couch, eventually letting Isla scavenge around the fridge, only eating the left overs, fruits, and snacks. Bella wouldn't eat as she cried and cried her fluids out. Isla would repeatedly ask her to drink water, which she fortunately did. In the end, Bella and Isla finally fell asleep, one with hope that their mom would be back tomorrow, and one utterly distraught and hopeless.

The following day stayed the same, leaving Isla scarred with the sound of Bella's exhausted cries. She couldn't help her sister no matter how hard she cheers her up, eventually searching for toys they could play with. Upon Isla's search, she stumbled with her mother's box, filled with papers and pictures of them together— alongside a pistol. However, she only took the photos with her, showing it to Bella instead. "See here?" She asked, pointing at their happy expressions. "Sissy, please don't be sad.. " Isla almost pleaded, her eyes welling up with tears. "We're okay.. " She spoke, cupping Bella's cheeks and wiping away her tears. However, Bella could only cry more when she saw the photo. "Isla, it hurts.. " She complained, pressing their foreheads together. "Please help me... I don't want to live anymore, I'm so tired.. " Bella continued, making Isla tear up. It hurts her to see her sister in so much pain, but she knows what she means. "You're gonna leave me too?" Isla asked in a trembling voice. "I love you, Bella... I love you.. " The child pressed on, hugging her sister.

Upon the third day, Isla couldn't stand the cries of her older sister anymore, only keeping her in a hug, hoping that it would make her feel better. Like what Claudia would do, she kissed Bella by the forehead, thinking that she could somehow take the pain away from her heart. "Isla... I want to die.. " Bella blurted out in a weak and raspy voice, exhausted and through after crying so much. "I don't want to kill myself, but I hope I'd just die... " She added. At this point, Isla repeatedly heard her sister's pleas, only repeating the same words over and over again. "I'm so tired, Isla... " Bella rambled. Isla always wanted to help, doing the best she could. She wanted to do her a favor, even if it means that they won't be together anymore. The day went on the same, but this time— Isla didn't let go of Bella, keeping her in a tight embrace. By the time the 10 year old finally fell asleep, the little girl stared at her, having a sense of dedication and acceptance to keep Bella asleep and in peace. Making her way back to the box with a pistol, Isla remembered how it works. After all, she would occasionally catch her mother watching some action films. In a way, the 4 year old didn't feel scared, she's simply making Bella a favor.

"Mommy, I had a dream.. " Isla called with a bright smile, showing Sammy a drawing of a little angel, holding a smile. "A dream?" The woman asked in a mix of adoration and interest, bringing Isla by her lap. The last time she remembered, the 7 year old would wake up crying from vivid nightmares. The psychologist could still remember how Isla had trouble moving on from all the blood and gore she witnessed 3 years ago. Primarily, Sammy assumed that it was Isla's sense of guilt for killing her sister, but eventually, she figured that it was the sheer trauma. "It was sissy!" Isla exclaimed with an eager nod. "She greeted me happy birthday, she looks so happy, mom!" Sammy was relieved after hearing such an endearing dream. "I'm sure, Bella's in a good place, hm?" Isla nodded. "She's in a garden and she was playing like a little girl. She even hugged me and thanked me that I got her there without hurting her heart.. "

Sammy couldn't help but feel bittersweet. That fateful night, Isla shot her sister by the head, thinking that her heart was located behind her eyes. The little girl was under the literal impression of "your eyes are the window of your soul", considering that Bella's eyes were full of pain. Not to mention, Claudia often gave kisses by the forehead, muttering along the lines that her love would reach their heart. "Isla, baby... Do you miss your sister?" Sammy asked, eventually shifting her daughter in a cradle. "I miss her, but I think she's not supposed to be here with me.. " Isla mumbled in a drowsy voice. "She's happier there, she even said that mommy would follow her soon.. " She blurted out, more or less still remembering Claudia as her mom. Sammy could only hum, cracking a smile over the thought that God really gave each sister their own mother.

"They're not going to make it, are they?" He coughs.

She tries to reassure him, "There's still time."

Their bodies huddled on the floor as the fire rages around them, their backs growing warm at the blaze.

"I don't want to burn," he says, fear in his voice.

"There's still time," she reassures him once more.

But despite her words, the smoke is now thick in the room, brushing their backs and rising towards the ceiling.

"Maybe the smoke will get us first," he coughs out, his voice weak.

"Please don't say that," she begs, tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I just don't want it to hurt."

"I don't want it at all," she responds, her voice breaking.

They draw closer to each other, and he strokes her hair. The soot stains his hand, more that it stained her hair.

He pulls her close in a weak force on the floor, crawling towards her until their faces ware only inches apart. "There's no one else I'd rather be here with me at the end, but God I wish you weren't," he spoke with black tears falling helplessly from his amber eyes to the floor.

She looks at him sadly, understanding his feelings. "Is there a small part of you that feels relieved that I was?"

His silence speaks volumes of guilt for even feeling serene while they die, still- she gives him a small smile. "It's okay. I feel it as well.."

"I love you" — "I love you too.." They close the small distance between them, staring intently with the sparks of their eyes glowing dim, slowly accepting the end of the rope. Out of their last desperate desire, they lock their lips in a passionate kiss, with the taste of smoke lingered their tongues, but it's the only thing in the room that doesn't feel like burning.

When they part, they intertwined their fingers locked, and their eyes meet for the last time. They remain there until his breathing grows shallow, and a final, weak breath escapes him, turning his chest still and his eyelids heavy.

Her voice has grown too weak to call his name. She only has enough strength to look to the door as the inferno that has begun to creep under its frame.

She looks at his still chest and a part of her feels relief that he was right that the smoke came for them before the fire. The other part of her curses it for taking him first.

She strokes through his hair like he had hers. It stains her hand in the same shade of black it did to his.

She stares at his chest a moment longer to make sure it'll never take another breath before she takes the deepest one she can to make sure she follows him.