The zipper gave a satisfying zzzt as Kye closed the last compartment of his hiking bag. The weight of it felt oddly comforting—like armor strapped to his back. The sun was barely up, smothered behind low-hanging clouds that painted the world in dull greys. His room was still and quiet, the only sound the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved.
The poster of a mountain trail hung above his desk—torn at the corners, curling from age. He stared at it for a second, then at his reflection in the mirror: cropped black hair, faint dark circles under sharp eyes, and that look he always wore like a shield—half-bored, half-ready to snap. Built, sure, but not polished. Like a fighter who trained in shadows, not gyms.
His aunt's voice broke the silence. "Got everything?" she called from the kitchen, where she was torching toast again. The smoke alarm had long since given up on warning them.
Kye stood in the hallway, watching her fuss over a paper plate like it held state secrets. Her curly hair was pinned up in a lopsided bun, and her oversized hoodie read: Warning: I Have No Filter.
He nodded. "Yeah."
She gave him a once-over. "Spare socks? Painkillers? Emotional resilience?"
"Check, check, still in development."
A smile tugged at her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Be careful. You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"That I'm-trying-not-to-think-about-my-parents look."
He forced a smirk. "I thought that was just my face."
They exchanged a long glance. No hugs, no dramatic goodbyes. Just silence wrapped in understanding. Then, with one last nod, Kye turned and stepped out into the chilled morning air.
The wind bit his cheeks. The street was quiet. A lone bird croaked somewhere high above, breaking the silence. His boots hit the pavement with slow, steady thuds. The dull ache of something unspoken clung to his shoulders, heavier than the bag.
He didn't look back.
The route to school was familiar—four blocks, one broken stoplight, and a convenience store with flickering signage. The owner waved at him through the window; Kye barely noticed. His thoughts were already drifting to the hills, the tents, and whatever passed for 'fun' in a school-organized outdoor trip.
At the last corner, he paused. A kid's soccer ball rolled into the street ahead of him—no kid in sight. The ball stopped. Rolled back toward the sidewalk.
Kye narrowed his eyes.
Then kept walking.
By the time he reached the school gates, he had mentally run through every item in his bag twice. Not that he cared about forgetting things—he just didn't want to sit alone with his thoughts. They were crowded lately, filled with silent accusations and muffled memories.
He remembered the silence that followed the crash. Not the sound of metal or glass. Just silence. Thick and absolute. After the funeral, people looked at him like he might explode. Or disappear.
His aunt tried. She really did. But some pieces of a person don't come back once they're snapped.
He walked past a set of vending machines outside the gymnasium, catching his reflection in the glass. For a second, he didn't recognize himself. There was a flicker in his eyes—something unreadable. Not tired. Not even numb.
Just… absent.
Kye reached into his side pocket and pulled out a small, battered notebook. The edges were worn soft from handling, the front cover blank except for a tiny imprint: Keep Going.
He flipped it open to a blank page. Wrote a single word in the corner: Today.
Then tucked it away again.
Voices carried through the front courtyard. Students gathered in small clusters—some already in uniform, others still in pajamas with coffee in hand. He moved past them like a ghost.
"Hey, Kye!" someone called.
He turned. It was Clara from his Literature class. She offered a small wave, then looked like she regretted it. Her smile wavered when she noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
"Safe travels," she said, voice quieter.
"Thanks," Kye replied. Then moved on.
The thing about being the 'quiet one' wasn't that people didn't know you. It was that they didn't ask.
A car backfired somewhere down the street. Kye didn't flinch. Two kids did.
He checked the time. Twenty minutes before assembly.
He sat on a bench beneath a jacaranda tree near the field and stretched his legs. He could hear the team coach shouting at someone through a closed door nearby. The scent of cut grass clung to the air.
Kye leaned back and let his eyes close for a moment.
But all that came were flashes of firelight, sharp voices, and something far too old to belong in childhood.
When he opened them again, the clouds were starting to thin. Pale light filtered through. The birds resumed their chatter.
He stood.
Time to get this over with.