The district poetry showcase was held in the multipurpose room—a space that smelled like gym shoes and floor polish, where foldable chairs replaced bleachers, and the stage was just a few risers under flickering lights.
Lian didn't want to go.
But Ms. Devon had submitted his poem anyway. And when he tried to protest, she'd just said: "You don't need to perform it for them. Just for yourself."
So he stood in the dim side wing, his paper clutched tightly, the words nearly worn off from how many times he'd unfolded it.
The crowd was a mix of students, teachers, bored parents sipping from paper cups. Jamie waved at him from the second row.
And somewhere near the back, his father sat stiffly beside his mother—both of them watching, both of them silent.
His name was called.
He walked up slowly.
The mic crackled.
Lian looked down at the paper.
He could read it. He could just read it, and get it over with.
But the words on the page didn't feel like the real ones anymore.
So he looked up.
And spoke.
Not loudly. Not perfectly.
But truly.
"My poem is called 'The Thing That Doesn't Break.'"
A pause.
"It's not a river. Or a thread. Or a spider's web.It's not a voice or a shell or the inside of a locked closet.It's the thing behind all of those.The thing that remembers even when you don't.That hides even when you think it's gone.That still believes in youwhen you've stopped seeing yourself.It's not always gentle.It's not always clean.Sometimes, it looks like the person you love most,saying the wrong thing.Sometimes it looks like you,saying nothing at all.But it doesn't break.Not really.It just waitsfor youto be ready."
When he finished, there was no applause at first. Just quiet.
A stillness.
Then someone clapped. Then more.
But Lian didn't hear it. Not really.
He was staring at his mother's face—eyes glistening—and his father's hands, clenched in his lap, slowly unfolding.
And in the moment between sitting down and breathing again, Lian realized he hadn't seen a single animal.
Not in anyone.
Not even himself.
Just people.
And that, somehow, felt like the greatest magic of all.