Torn

Mirei never realized how many versions of herself she’d worn out until none of them fit anymore.

There was the version who sat beside Gale, ten years old and full of quiet courage, fingers sticky with glue and confidence she didn’t know was temporary. There was the version who stopped raising her hand in class because someone laughed at the way her voice cracked. The version who learned how to fold herself smaller, to take up less space, to hide inside the neat edges of her uniform and the sleeves pulled past her wrists.

That version was the one who survived the most. The quietest ones always did.

After school, she walked with Aren down the narrow sidewalk that led away from campus. The sky was softening, dusk bleeding into the edges, washing the world in pale gold. Their steps were uneven, out of sync. Aren always walked a little faster, like there was somewhere important waiting for her, and Mirei always lagged, like she was afraid to arrive anywhere at all.

Neither of them talked much after school. It was a familiar silence, one they knew how to carry without it getting heavy.

Mirei’s fingers curled around her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. There were messages - nothing important. A forwarded meme from Caelis, some class group chat nonsense, and a reminder from her mom that there was leftover curry in the fridge.

And then there was the old conversation, pinned to the top out of habit - the last thread of connection between her and Gale. It was barely a conversation at all. Just two words, sent months ago.

“Happy birthday.”

He’d sent it hours late, just before midnight, probably after someone reminded him. She didn’t reply.

Now it sat there, a thread frayed so thin it was almost invisible. She could unpin it, delete it, let it vanish with all the other things she couldn’t hold onto. But she didn’t.

“Mirei,” Aren said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Mirei blinked. “What?”

Aren’s gaze stayed forward, but her hands tightened on the straps of her bag. “You think about him a lot.”

There was no need to ask who.

Mirei’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t a smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Aren said, her voice too even, too patient.

Mirei felt the words pressing at the back of her teeth, too sharp to swallow, too painful to say. “He’s different now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He doesn’t even look at me.”

“Because you never look at him first,” Aren said, and her voice was soft, but not gentle. Not today. “You keep waiting for him to see you, like you’re some secret waiting to be found. But you’re not invisible, Mirei. You’re just hiding.”

The truth of it cut deeper than Mirei wanted to admit.

She tugged her sleeve lower, fingers curling into the fabric like it could hold her together. “I’m tired,” she said instead.

Aren didn’t push. She never did. But the weight of her knowing sat between them, something Mirei couldn’t quite escape.

When they reached the corner where they always split off - Aren heading left, Mirei heading straight - Aren paused.

“Talk to him,” Aren said, for the second time that day. “Even if it’s just once.”

Mirei couldn’t answer.

The truth was, her voice didn’t fit right anymore. Not the one Gale used to know, or the one she wore now. Everything felt threadbare. Too thin, too worn out, ready to unravel at the slightest pull.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because if she spoke, if she reached for him, even once, there was no telling what would be left of her when the thread finally snapped.

Aren didn’t wait for a reply. She walked away, her hair catching the light for a moment before the shadows swallowed her whole.

Mirei stood there, alone with the frayed edges of herself, wondering how much longer she could hold together.