Aria

The crowd's frenzied cheers filled the arena, almost drowning out the clash of steel. The archer stood
poised, each movement precise and deadly. Her arrows flew with perfect grace, striking true against
the advancing warrior.
I leaned forward, fingers tight around the controller. For once, I'd chosen the archer instead of the
warrior. Mom's influence, maybe. The warrior charged, desperation in every step, but my archer
remained calm. Just like Mom always said: "Breathe. Focus. Release."
The final arrow found its mark. The warrior fell.
VICTORY.
The word flashed across the screen, but I barely noticed it. My thoughts were already drifting, slipping
out of focus as I set down the controller.
I fiddled with the hem of my pink pajamas, feeling the silky fabric between my fingers. They had little
white cherry blossoms—a matching set Mom bought me last Christmas. The lace trim made them feel
just cute enough to wear, even when I didn’t want to look too closely at myself.
A gentle knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Aria?” Mom’s voice was muffled but warm. “I made your favorite—a ham sandwich. I’ll leave it outside
your door, okay?”
I tensed. My heartbeat quickened, turning sharp and uneven. I didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words. I
listened, hearing the soft clink of the plate being set down.
Mom lingered for a moment before her footsteps retreated, leaving the faint scent of food creeping
under the door.
I stared at the door, hands tightening into fists against the silky fabric of my pajamas. The sandwich
was right there, just on the other side. My stomach growled, but my legs felt like lead, pinning me in
place.
I stood slowly, legs shaky as I took a hesitant step forward. The distance to the door wasn’t far, but
each step felt endless, the air thickening with each shallow breath.
My hand hovered over the doorknob, fingertips trembling. The plate was right there. But when my
fingers brushed the cold metal, my pulse surged, and I recoiled as if burned.
I sank to the floor, knees drawn up against my chest, leaning against the bed. My gaze drifted back to
the door, my arms wrapped tight around myself as I tried to breathe through the tightness.
I looked over at a nearby mirror in my room. A small girl with messy pale green hair stared back at me.
She had my face, my eyes, but something was wrong—like looking at a photograph that had been
slowly fading, edges blurring until the person in it was barely recognizable.
I sighed, the thought slipping away.
My stomach growled again, louder this time. Hunger was starting to win over the knot in my chest. I
stared at the door, fingers still trembling.
I slowly rose, hand hovering over the doorknob once more. With a deep inhale, I wrapped my fingers
around the cold metal and twisted. The door creaked as it opened a crack.
The plate was there, sitting patiently. A simple ham sandwich—my favorite—cut neatly into triangles,
just like when I was a kid. I knelt and reached for the plate.
That’s when I heard voices—my parents talking downstairs.
"She needs to get out of that room," Dad's voice was tense, frustration prickling in his tone. "It's been
over a year since she quit school. She can't stay locked up like this."
Mom's softer tone followed. "I know, but we have to be patient. The therapist said—"
"The therapist? How many have we seen now? Three? Four?" Dad's words came out sharp, cutting.
"Remember when she used to play piano? When she'd actually smile? Now she won't even come
downstairs for dinner."
"She's trying, Hiro. You don't see her small victories because you're barely home anymore."
"Because someone has to work! These medical bills, the therapists, the online courses she never
finishes—" He stopped abruptly, and I could almost see him running his hand through his hair like he
always did when overwhelmed. "I just... I miss my daughter. The real Aria."
"This is the real Aria," Mom's voice hardened slightly, protective. "She's still our daughter, just fighting a
battle we can't see. And she needs our support, not our judgment."
"Support? We're enabling her. Every meal at her door, every excuse to stay inside—we're making it
worse." Dad's voice shifted, colder. "She needs a push. The world won't wait forever."
"And what if that push breaks her completely? Is that what you want?"
The silence that followed felt heavy, loaded with unspoken fears.
Finally, Dad spoke again, his voice tired. "I have to get to work. We'll talk about this more when I get
back." His footsteps moved away, followed by the sharp sound of his keys.
"Hiro," Mom called after him, softer now. "She's still in there. The Aria you miss—she's trying to find her
way back."
The front door closed without a response.
Unease prickled through me. I backed away, careful not to let my door slam, and retreated into my
room.
As it clicked shut, a wave of sadness threatened to overflow, tightening my throat as tears pricked at
the corners of my eyes. I set the plate on my desk and sat on the edge of my bed, sandwich untouched
beside me.
Why can’t I just be... normal? I hadn’t left the house in so long. I could barely remember what it felt like
to walk outside, to feel the sun on my skin, the breeze in my hair.
Leaving felt impossible—whenever I tried, it was like something pressed on my chest, my head
spinning, freezing me to the spot. The more I stayed in, the more excuses I had to keep hiding.
My eyes drifted to the sandwich, but my mind was elsewhere.
No matter how hard I tried, my thoughts always circled back to that day.
I could still hear the murmur of the audience, the rustle of programs as they waited for me to start
playing. Sitting at the piano, fingers hovering over the keys, my heart pounding like crazy. It was
supposed to be just like practice—but it wasn't. I'd never felt that way before. The sudden rush of heat,
the tightness in my throat, the overwhelming fear that crushed me until I couldn't breathe.
I didn't know what it was then. I didn't know the word for it was panic. But after that day, it kept
happening. At first, just when I thought about performing. Then at school, during lunch. In the hallways
between classes. On the bus. The fear of it happening again became worse than the panic itself.
Every morning became a countdown to when it might strike. Every crowded space turned into a trap I
couldn't escape. My world shrank with each attack—first no more recitals, then no more school, then no
more leaving my room. Because what if it happened again? What if this time I couldn't breathe at all?
What if people saw me fall apart?
The fear was a shadow, always there, hovering on the edge of every thought. It whispered that the
safest place was here, alone, where nobody could see me break. Where I couldn't disappoint anyone
else. Where the panic couldn't find me—even though it did, again and again, until my room became
both my sanctuary and my prison.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and before I could stop it, another followed. My breath hitched as the
hollow feeling inside expanded. I wiped at my face, but the tears wouldn't stop, spilling freely now. I
pulled my knees tighter against me, trying to hold myself together, but the sobs broke through, quiet
and trembling.
I stared at the untouched sandwich, Dad's words echoing in my mind. The weight of his disappointment
pressed down, making each breath feel heavy. How long could I stay like this? The question lingered,
unanswered.I picked up the controller again, but instead of starting a new match, I found myself
watching the character select screen. The archer stood there, bow ready, reminding me of Mom.
Mom, who never stopped trying. Who left sandwiches at my door even though I couldn't pick them up.
Who still invited me places even though I always said no. The thought of her practicing alone at the
range, probably still hoping I'd join her someday...
From my desk, I could see her old competition photo hanging on the wall—the one where she's smiling
after winning nationals. She'd always made it look so easy, so graceful. Not just the archery, but
everything. When was the last time I'd actually thanked her? Not just with words mumbled through the
door, but really thanked her? The weight of everything she'd done these past months pressed against
my chest—different from the usual anxiety, more like... guilt.
A memory surfaced: Mom teaching me archery when I was little. "The bow doesn't care if you're
scared," she'd said. "It only cares if you're willing to try."
My fingers traced the edge of the photo frame. Maybe... maybe I could try. Not for Dad, not for the
world outside, but for her. Just one small step, like drawing back a bow.A soft, hesitant knock at my
door pulled me from my daze.
"Hey, sweetie?" Mom's voice drifted through the door. "I'm heading down to the range for a bit. Thought
maybe... you might want to come with? Get out of the house for a while?"
My fingers tightened around the blanket. The thought of stepping outside still sent a ripple of anxiety
through me, but something felt different this time. Maybe it was the memory of the archer on screen, or
the weight of Dad's words, or just the growing ache of wanting to be more than this version of myself.
"Come on," she added softly. "Why don't you give it a try?"
For a long moment, I didn't move. Part of me wanted to say yes, but every reason to stay rooted me to
the bed, every step outside loaded with what-ifs. What if I couldn't handle it? What if the fear hit me
again, and I retreated back to this room—back to hiding?
But still, the idea lingered, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't immediately dismiss it.
The thought of her waiting, hoping... maybe I could go, just this once.
Maybe it was finally time to thank her, for everything.
There was a pause, then her voice again, softer. "You know, Aria... the first step is always the hardest
part. I'll be downstairs, okay?"
I took a shaky breath, then managed a whisper. "I'll get dressed."
Moving slowly, I changed out of my pajamas, reaching for my oversized jacket. Thick and warm, it was
like armor—just enough to make me feel a little less exposed.
The hallway stretched before me, longer than it should have been. The air felt cold, like a storm had
settled in the house, but I knew it wasn’t real. It was all in my head. I could feel the weight of it—my
anxiety—pressing down on me, a chill sinking into my bones.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The floor was slick, like ice under my feet. My legs moved slower,
like I was wading through a snowstorm no one else could see. The air thickened, each breath shallow.
Each one a struggle.
The storm inside me howled, but I kept going. One step. Another. The cold dragged at me, pulling me
back. I slipped, falling forward into it all.
Ahead, a sound rose, like rushing water. Louder and louder with each step. A huge waterfall crashing
down, filling the air with mist and noise. The roar surrounded me. I lifted a hand to shield my face
against the spray and wind.
Closer. I could see it now, right over the edge. Water tumbling down to the rocks below, hitting hard.
Scattering droplets like shards of glass. The fall seemed endless. A pull so strong I could feel it tugging
me down.
I can't do it.
The wind whipped at me, my legs shaky and unsteady. My foot slipped past the ledge. For a split
second, I was falling, nothing beneath me.
Then.
Warmth. The storm faded as my feet found something solid, landing on the top stair. The world around
me, quiet and still. I took a shaky breath and steadied myself.
Mom waited at the bottom of the stairs, her smile full of pride. It was that same look Dad used to give
me back before his words turned into frustration.
"I knew you could do it, sweetie." she said.
The storm lingered in my chest, but I’d pushed through it.
Mom took a step closer, then held out a small bracelet. “Before we go, I thought you might like this. It’s
something I made back when I was about your age.” Her voice softened, and she smiled faintly. “It’s not
perfect, but it’s special to me. I thought you could wear it now.”
I stared at the simple band, its smooth surface reflecting the light. It wasn’t flashy—just a piece of
braided silver wire with a small, pale-blue bead at its center—but it felt warm in my palm, like it carried a
memory.
“Why did you make it?” I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mom’s expression grew thoughtful. “This little thing? I made it when I was your age, believe it or not.
When I was younger, I used to get nervous before competitions. Making things like this… it helped calm
me down a bit. This one was special, though. I made it before my big nationals competition. I told
myself that as long as I kept it with me, I could get through just about anything.”
Her words settled over me, quiet but steady, like a thread stitching something fragile back together.
Mom’s grin widened as she pointed to the bracelet. "Be careful with the power you now hold, that thing
is magical.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically.
I slipped it onto my wrist, feeling the cool metal against my skin. It didn’t fix anything, didn’t erase the
storm inside me, but I appreciated the theatrics.
“Thank you,” I murmured, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
Mom beamed in return, her eyes glimmering with pride. She turned and grabbed her car keys from the
counter, glancing back at me with a playful grin. "Our enemy awaits us my dear Aria."
The drive to the archery range passed quietly at first. I stared out the window, watching the world blur
by, lost in thought. Then Mom’s voice broke the silence.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect you to come with me. You know, sometimes you just need a good experience
to mask a bad one. Like… if you have a bad taste in your mouth, you’ve got to freshen it up.”
I gave a small smile, keeping my gaze out the window. “I know, I know,” I murmured.
“It could be.” Her voice was gentle. “A good memory can be stronger than a bad one, if you let it.”
I hesitated, then admitted quietly, “I don’t enjoy hiding away, you know. It just… doesn’t feel like there’s
another option sometimes.”
She was quiet for a moment, and then she spoke. “The hardest steps are the ones we can’t see. They
can feel impossible until you’ve taken them, and then suddenly, they’re way behind you.” She reached
over, her hand a gentle weight on my shoulder.
I glanced at her, my pulse pounding in my ears, then dropped my gaze to the bracelet on my wrist. A
wave of panic tightened my chest, and for a moment, I could barely breathe. My fingers trembled as I
traced the smooth bead at its center, pressing against its cool surface. The bead’s texture anchored
me, each deliberate touch slowing my racing thoughts by a fraction. It reminded me of why I’d agreed to
come in the first place—a small promise to myself, and to her, that I was going to try.
The car slowed as we approached the archery range, the crunch of gravel under the tires breaking the
silence. Mom parked and hopped out quickly, heading to the back of the car to grab her equipment. I
hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the door handle as I steadied my breathing.
Finally, I opened the door and stepped out, the cool air hitting me like a splash of water. Mom slung her
bow over her shoulder and smiled at me. "Ready? Let's take it slow."
The archery range was peaceful, nestled in a small park. A few people stood in their lanes, practicing,
their arrows thudding softly into distant targets. It was calm here, open, and the fresh air felt strange
against my skin.
"You don't have to shoot," Mom said gently. "Just being here is enough."
I hesitated, then shook my head. "No... I want to try."
We walked over to our lane, the gravel crunching softly beneath our feet. Mom handed me a bow, the
wood smooth and worn. "It's all about your breath," she said, smiling. "Slow and steady."
I took the bow, my hands trembling slightly. The weight of it felt unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. I nocked
an arrow, my heart drumming.
"Breathe," Mom reminded me, her voice calm.
Inhaling, I steadied my fingers as I drew back the string. The target felt impossibly far away, but I aimed
and released.
The arrow soared forward, cutting through the air, and for a moment, I thought—maybe it would hit. I
could almost see it landing right in the center, a perfect shot. But then it lost its speed, wobbling, before
dropping straight into the dirt, two feet in front of me.
I blinked, stunned, and then let out a quiet laugh. Mom chuckled softly beside me, shaking her head.
"Well, it didn't go backward!" she teased.
I kept watching as she lined up for her turn—steady and graceful, every movement sure. My gaze
drifted toward the kids playing near the next lane. They were laughing, carefree, and for a moment, I
felt a pang of jealousy at how easily they moved through the day. No caution, no weight pressing down.
Mom was still poised, arrow nocked, when a sharp cry from the lane over shattered the stillness. I
turned, just in time to see a child stumbling into the archer’s outstretched arm, sending their bow jerking
off its mark. The moment seemed to stretch out, the arrow loosed at a wild angle—spinning, flickering
in the sunlight.
My heart lurched. It was headed straight for Mom.
She couldn’t see it coming—she was focused on her own shot, her back partially turned. A split-second
rush of fear shot through me, and before I could fully register it, my body was already moving. My mind
screamed at me to stop, but instinct took over.
I sprinted, limbs pumping, adrenaline surging through every muscle. Mom’s form filled my vision as she
realized something was wrong, but there wasn’t time for her to react. I flung myself in front of her, arms
wide, my only thought to shield her from the oncoming arrow.
Everything else fell away—the chatter of the kids, the distant hum of cars passing by. In that instant, it
was just me, the arrow, and Mom.
The sharp, burning pain exploded in my chest. The arrow had struck me.
Mom gasped as I collided with her, her hands instinctively reaching to steady me, but the impact stole
my breath away, and my legs gave out beneath me. I collapsed against her, the world tilting as
darkness edged into my vision.
It hurts.
“Mom…” The word slipped out, faint, a whisper I wasn’t even sure she heard.
Her expression shifted from confusion to horror as her eyes darted to the arrow buried in my chest. “No,
no, no!” she cried, her voice cracking as she dropped to her knees beside me. Her hands trembled as
she pressed them against the wound, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. The warmth of her touch
felt distant, barely cutting through the cold spreading through my body.
“Stay with me, Aria! Please!” Her words came fast, frantic, as if sheer will could hold me together. Tears
streamed down her face, mixing with the streaks of dirt on her cheeks. “Someone, call an ambulance!”
she screamed, her voice raw, but the world around us felt impossibly far away.
The edges of my vision blurred, darkness creeping in like ink spilled on paper. Mom’s voice was all I
could hear, breaking through the fog.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said, her voice shaking, the words more for herself than me. Her hands
pressed harder against the wound, desperate to keep me anchored to her. Blood seeped through her
fingers, warm and unrelenting, spilling out no matter how hard she pressed. Her sobs grew louder,
shaking her whole body as she fought to stop the flow, her hands slipping against the crimson that
stained everything between us. “You’re so strong, sweetheart. Just hold on for me. Please.”
The pain roared, sharp and unrelenting, but it began to dull, replaced by an eerie numbness. My limbs
felt heavy, and my chest ached with every shallow breath.
“Mom...” I whispered again, tears sliding down my face as hers hovered close. Her hand moved to cup
my cheek, warm and comforting, though her fingers trembled.
“I’m here, Aria. I’m right here. Don’t you dare leave me!” she begged, her voice breaking. Her sobs
shook her body, and I could feel her desperation in every word. “I love you. I love you so much.”
I wanted to tell her I loved her too, to thank her for never giving up on me, but my voice failed. My vision
faded further, the world narrowing to the sound of her voice and the feel of her arms around me, holding
me as if she could stop me from slipping away.
As everything dimmed, regret mixed with a strange, fragile peace. I’d finally stepped outside, taken a
chance, and she was here with me. In her arms, I wasn’t alone.
The last thing I felt was the warmth of her embrace, a final tether to the life I was leaving behind.
Then, nothing.