a U t H o R

She was always an admirer, but never the admired. She sought attention-not out of vanity, but from a longing to be seen, to be valued. And that isn't wrong. Everyone wants to feel desired, to matter in someone's eyes.

But it's only harmless when kept in check. Once that desire spirals out of control, it brings consequences-dark ones. The kind that steal peace and plant torment instead. Like a hellfire that never dies down, only grows wilder-burning, consuming, never ceasing.

She was a villainess-but once, she had only wanted to be the good girl. The kind who smiled politely, waited her turn, and hoped someone would choose her. But no one ever did.

Now, she doesn't mind being what she is. In fact, she cherishes it. Being the one who chose herself. Because she's learned that in this world, no one admires the girl who stands alone-especially not men.

She knows this truth: no matter how cruel a man may be, he always wants an innocent girl. Soft. Quiet. Obedient. She is none of those things. She was never what they wanted-and never will be.

And that's her power.

Don't worry.

Don't leave just yet, assuming this isn't a love story.

Because it is.

It's definitely a love story.

But the kind that ends.

Hers was never a grand romance shouted under moonlight or scribbled into poems. It was made of glances never returned, of hands almost held, of words caught in her throat. She tried-over and over-to be admired. To be loved. But she failed every time.

Still, there were moments. Oh, there were moments-tiny, delicate things that passed too quickly. A smile held a second longer. A gaze that lingered before looking away. A silence that felt like a confession.

It wasn't much. But it was hers.

And in those smallest affectionate fragments, she felt like maybe, just maybe, she had been loved. Even if only for a moment. Even if only in the way someone loves a passing breeze-felt, but never held.

So then, we all gathered in the hallway-shoulders brushing, breaths held. No one spoke, but somehow we all knew: it was time. Time to listen. Not with our ears, but with the feel of our hearts.

The story of Her.

The one who loved in silence.

The one who longed to be admired, but was only ever overlooked.

The one who gave her heart in small pieces, hoping someone might see the whole of her.

But no one ever did.

Now, we stand here-not to mourn, but to remember.

Not just what she became, but what she once hoped to be.

Because her story wasn't loud.

It wasn't perfect.

But it was real.

And maybe, just maybe, that's the kind of love story worth remembering most.

It began with the whispers.

The hushed gossip of people who had never spoken her name before.

Not because they didn't know it-but because they had never cared to use it.

She had a beautiful name. One that sounded like poetry when said right.

But she often wondered-was she ever that beautiful?

Or was she truly so forgettable, so unworthy, that no one wanted to say it aloud?

She would've been so happy... if someone-just once-had rolled her name on their tongue with warmth. With fondness. The way she'd imagined it, a hundred times over.

She was the kind of girl who giggled over the littlest things for hours.

Not because they were grand, but because they meant something to her quiet, reserved heart.

She often asked herself, Was I really that smart?

Because in her own eyes, she was useless. Ugly. A background blur in everyone else's story.

Yet, when it was time to show up, to be seen, she tried her best.

She stood up. Straightened her shoulders. Wore a smile like armor.

Even if isolation had wrapped around her so tightly, it turned her quiet into silence-into something the world labeled "autistic."

Still, she carried herself.

Maybe not gracefully, maybe not perfectly.

But she moved forward.

Because someone had to keep giving her hope. Even if it was false, even if it was just her.

After all... how could she hate herself for what others thought?

She didn't give a f*** anymore.

And oddly, that gave her confidence.

But still... why did she crave attention?

Because no one ever praised her. That was the truth.

She could handle strangers spitting out cruel words. But when it came from someone close-someone she trusted-it pierced deeper.

She was called spoiled. Disobedient.

Yet she never let her parents' heads hang in shame.

But still... she had never made them proud.

She tried to be good.

To be obedient.

To be everything.

And one day...

She just let it slide.

...♡...

A young lady, barely eighteen, stepped slowly down the stairs. Her gaze drifted into nothingness, unfocused and distant, as if searching for something she'd already lost. Her delicate palm brushed along the polished wooden railing, grounding her with its familiar grain.

Her black hair, thin and damp, clung gently to her soft shoulders, veiling the slight curve of her neck. Natural brown highlights shimmered faintly in the light, catching the air with every silent step she took.

She sighed-for the fifth time.

A soft, weary exhale that spoke louder than words ever could.

Her surroundings shifted before her siren-shaped, deep black eyes-eyes she quietly believed were her only beautiful feature. But even they had dulled, clouded by the weight of her inner turmoil.

Those who knew her, knew the signs.

When she began to sigh loudly... repeatedly...

She was upset. Not in anger, but in sorrow.

A kind of sadness that echoed in silence.

Her thin silver anklets chimed with each step, the sound delicate yet sharp-like whispers forced into the open. The hallway echoed with their rhythm, betraying her presence even as she wished to blend in.

She was a bit chubby, soft in places where the world expected sharpness. Curvy in ways that always drew the attention of men-attention that made her shrink inward, uncomfortable in her own skin. She didn't mind being seen.

But she longed to be understood.

Yes, she wanted a lover.

But not the kind who only saw her body.

She wanted someone who saw her heart-who touched her soul before ever reaching for her skin.

She was wrapped in a brown gown, its fabric clinging to her curves like a devoted lover-like a husband pulling his wife into a gentle embrace. The color glowed against her tan skin, earthy and warm, as if the garment was made for her and her alone.

With her other hand, she absently played with the gold earrings dangling from her ears. It was a small, nervous habit-something to keep her grounded, something to fill the silence that always followed her.

Her full, chubby cheeks were pulled into a faint pout, unconscious but endearing-an echo of the emotion she never voiced aloud. Every now and then, she ran her tongue gently over her small, light brown lips, a nervous tick that made her seem younger than she was, lost in thought.

With each step she took, her full chest moved softly beneath the fabric of her gown, rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath-subtle, natural, unintentional. She wasn't trying to be seen. But her body, graceful in its own quiet way, refused to hide.

She never tried to use her figure to draw attention, yet it followed her like a shadow. And though she sometimes wished to disappear, there was something in her-some stubborn flicker-that still wanted to be loved as she was.

Not for her softness, or her curves.

But for the girl who sighed quietly, played with her earrings, and longed for someone to say her name like it meant something.

She wanted to turn back.

Wanted to run to the safety of her room, pull the blanket over her head, and disappear into silence. But she kept walking-one reluctant step after another. Her thick thighs moved with effort, her calves aching with a dull soreness that pulsed like a reminder: you don't belong out here.

She didn't really wish to walk.

Didn't want to be seen.

But something pushed her forward-some tiny thread of defiance, or maybe hope.

The soft ache in her legs, the weight of her own body, the weight of her thoughts-they all clung to her like shadows. But she kept moving. Because even if the world never asked for her, she still showed up.

And now, she stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Breath shallow. Anklets stilled. Gown clinging to her sides.

She had made it.

Not far. Not loud.

But she was here.

And sometimes, for girls like her, that's already a victory.

She leaned her barely 5'4" (162 cm) frame gently against the railing, the cool wood pressing into her back as she stood in quiet stillness. The soft hum of the ballroom buzzed around her-laughter, music, footsteps, clinking glasses-but she stood apart, waiting.

She was waiting for her two closest friends, the only anchors she had in this sea of strangers and surface smiles.

Her keen black eyes wandered across the lavish room. Everywhere she looked, she saw beauty-elegant women in shimmering gowns, gentlemen with polished shoes and polished words, elderly couples dancing with nostalgia in their eyes. Her gaze brushed over several faces, meeting a few eyes-only to quickly dart away.

She didn't like being seen. Not like that.

And yet... she listened.

To the flirtatious whispers exchanged between men and women. The hushed promises, the teasing laughter, the too-sweet compliments.

She scoffed, soft and under her breath, and rolled her eyes just enough for her own amusement. But still, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, uninvited. She tried to fight it-after all, what would people think if they caught her smiling to herself?

Mad, probably.

Or worse-visible.

But the truth was, their whispers intrigued her. She didn't want to be them, but something inside her wanted to be wanted like that-even if she'd never admit it aloud.

The heavy scent of whiskey hit her nose, weaving through the air like an unwelcome guest. It mixed with the cloud of overpowering perfumes everyone had drowned themselves in-floral, musky, too sweet. Together, it was suffocating.

She wrinkled her nose in quiet disgust. The smell clung to everything-velvet curtains, golden chandeliers, even the laughter. It was ironic, really. She hadn't taken a single sip, yet she was already being intoxicated.

Fun fact, she thought bitterly, I'm getting drunk without drinking.

She hated perfumes. Hated how they stung her nose and twisted her stomach, how they always gave her a dull ache behind her eyes. They were too much-just like this place. Overdone. Artificial. Trying too hard to impress.

And whiskey? That was even worse.

She didn't need to taste it to know-it was just another poison dressed up as pleasure.

Her hand curled slightly over the railing as she exhaled through her mouth, trying to block out the world.

This wasn't her kind of party.

But she was here.

Present. Watching. Enduring.

Because somewhere in all this noise, she still hoped to feel something real.

Her lips parted slightly, just enough to pull in shallow breaths through her mouth. She was doing her best not to breathe through her nose-anything to keep the assaulting scent of whiskey and perfume at bay.

Her round nose twitched instinctively, a sign of her quiet struggle. It was such a small thing, but it made her look delicate, almost childlike-like someone trying to hold back tears in the middle of a storm.

She stood there, composed on the outside, but inside she was tightening. The way the smells clung, the way the sounds crashed over her like waves-it was all too much. And yet, she stayed. Silent. Still. Steady.

Because that's what she always did.

Stay, even when she wanted to disappear.

...♡...