Lian was halfway through her shift, balancing a tray and fake smiles, when her aunt walked in like she owned the place.
No greeting. No eye contact. Just the same loud steps, same overbearing perfume that clung to the air like a warning.
She moved through the store quickly—snatching snacks, drinks, even a bottle of wine. Things Lian knew added up to more than twenty dollars.
Then, as if rules didn't apply, her aunt strolled toward the exit.
Lian's heart jumped. She set the tray down, rushed after her, voice low but urgent.
"Auntie… You didn't pay."
Her aunt didn't pause.
"Sort it out yourself. And make sure I wasn't caught on camera. If I am—forget the roof over your head, you ungrateful brat."
Lian's cheeks burned. Her mouth went dry.
"But I—I don't have that kind of money—"
Her aunt spun, shoved her so hard she hit a display shelf. Packets crashed down beside her. A few customers stared. One whispered.
The bell above the door jingled.
She was gone.
And Lian was alone with shame tightening around her throat like a noose.
By the time she got home, rage and humiliation had settled deep—hot and humming beneath her skin.
Louis was sitting on the porch, feet swinging off the edge, face tilted up at the clouds.
> "It's gonna rain," he said quietly.
Lian didn't answer. She stormed inside.
Her aunt was on the phone, laughing like nothing had happened.
Lian stood in the doorway, shaking. Her voice came out rough.
"I'm not your slave. I'm tired of this."
One second passed.
Two.
Then the call ended with a snap.
Her aunt stood slowly, eyes gleaming with something cold. Without warning, she grabbed a handful of Lian's hair—black, shiny, and once her pride—and yanked.
Lian screamed, tried to pull back, but it was too late.
The scissors came out of nowhere.
She felt the slice before she heard it.
Strands fell like feathers. Onto the floor. Onto her shoulders. Into her mouth.
"There. Let's see who wants you now."
She and Louis were kicked out that night with nothing but a bag of clothes and an old umbrella that barely worked.
The sky opened up like it felt sorry for them.
They walked for hours, trying to find shelter. But everything was closed. No one wanted to help.
Eventually, they curled up outside a shut-down bakery, their backs against the door, clothes soaked and sticking to their skin.
Louis didn't cry.
Lian did.
Not loudly. Not like in the movies.
Just enough.
Her arms wrapped around her knees. Her breath steamed in the cold air. The rain tapped steadily on the tin roof above them, like a lullaby for the forgotten.
> "Lian," Louis whispered. "Are we gonna be okay?"
She looked at him—eyes too old for ten, lips cracked from the cold.
"I don't know."
And that was the truth.
She stared up at the sky and whispered into the night.
"When do I get to smile again?"
There was no answer.
Just the rain.
Just the ache.
Her mind drifted to the boy in the hospital.
The one whose hand had brushed hers for a second.
He'd looked so peaceful in his sleep. Like nothing in the world could touch him.
No hunger. No anger. No pain.
She envied him.
Not because he was rich or important—but because he was still. Untouched by the storm life kept throwing at her.
She wanted that.
She needed it.
Somewhere inside, she wondered if the ache in her chest would ever go away.
If her name would ever feel like hers again.
If someone, somewhere, was waiting to say:
"It's okay now. You can breathe.
The rain didn't stop that night. Neither did the ache in her chest.
But tomorrow would come—whether she was ready or not