---
I've always hated mornings.
Not because I'm lazy, but because it reminds me of how everything starts the same and ends the same. Wake up to the sound of Sister Emma's voice echoing through the halls. Fold my blanket. Fix my bed. Wait for my turn in the bathroom. Brush my hair. Wear my uniform.
Another day of pretending I'm okay.
I walked toward the dining hall with the same expression I've worn since I was ten — neutral, unreadable. The younger girls were already laughing over bowls of champorado. I managed a small smile at them, but my chest felt hollow, like something was missing.
Because something was missing.
Someone, actually.
Adrienne.
Even now, his name still feels like a whisper in my head. Like a wind that brushes past me when I least expect it. When we were kids, we did everything together. We climbed trees, drew with broken crayons on cardboard scraps, and sneaked into the kitchen for leftover bread. We even had our own hiding spot — an old tool shed beside the chapel. No one went there but us.
And then one day, he was gone.
Adopted.
Chosen.
Left behind.
---
I never blamed him for leaving.
Who would? It was every child's dream — to be chosen, to be taken home, to finally belong somewhere.
But he left me. And it hurt.
I didn't cry that day, not in front of the Sisters, not even when I saw his empty bed. But when night came, and everyone else was asleep, I curled into a ball and cried silently into my pillow, like I was trying to keep the memory of him from escaping me.
The hardest part? He promised he'd come back.
He said, "I'll find you someday, okay?"
I said, "I'll wait."
But years passed. And I kept waiting.
---
Now I'm sixteen. Still here. Still waiting.
In school, I do well. Not the top of the class, but enough to keep the Sisters proud. I like business subjects — there's something about organizing, managing, planning things that makes me feel in control. Maybe it's because the rest of my life feels like a mess.
My classmates don't really know me. They call me "quiet" or "mysterious," which I guess is just a polite way of saying I don't talk much. I have friends, but no one really close. No one like him.
Sometimes during break, I sit by the back window of the classroom and sketch on my notebook — not people, but ideas. Café layouts. Menu designs. Names for pastries. I don't know why. I guess it's just something to do.
But every now and then, when no one's looking, I still draw his face — the way I remember it. His serious eyes. His shy smile. His messy hair.
I wish I could forget. I really do.
---
One rainy afternoon, while I was fixing the books in the small orphanage library, I found a crumpled piece of paper tucked inside a worn-out children's book. It was an old note — written in childish handwriting, in blue crayon:
"Lia, don't forget me. I'll be back. - A"
My chest tightened so hard I couldn't breathe.
It was his.
I don't know how it ended up there, or why I found it after all these years. Maybe it was fate. Maybe just chance. But I kept it.
I folded the paper neatly and hid it inside my diary, like a secret I wasn't ready to let go of.
---
Nights are always the hardest.
When the lights are out and the world is quiet, memories come rushing back like waves I can't stop. I close my eyes and remember the shed, our laughter, his voice. And sometimes, I talk to him — not out loud, just in my head.
"Where are you now?"
"Did you forget me already?"
"Did you ever look back?"
And sometimes I hate myself for still caring this much.
But deep inside… I still hope.
Hope that maybe, someday, when I walk out that gate for the last time, I'll turn a corner and he'll be there — older, taller, different maybe, but still him.
Still Adrienne.
Still the boy who once made an orphan girl feel like she wasn't alone in the world.
---