Elara's Pov:
The alarm clock screeches, a shrill knife slicing through the dark. I jolt upright, heart pounding, the dream clinging to me like damp cloth. The ceiling in my mind isn't mine—it's cracked, gray, heavy with dust. The shouts, the boots, the flicker of light under a door. My hands shake as I press them to my face, willing the images away. It's not real. Not anymore. But my throat feels tight, words trapped where they've always been, silent and useless.
I'm Elara. I'm here. I'm safe.
The clock blinks 6:43 a.m. I drag myself out of bed, the floor cold against my bare feet. My room is small, cluttered with books and sketches I'll never show anyone. The mirror on the wall taunts me, but I avoid it, pulling on an oversized gray sweater that swallows my frame. It's soft, like a hug I don't deserve. I tug my dark hair into a messy bun, strands falling loose, and grab my headphones from the desk. They're my shield, my way to drown out the world.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells of burnt toast and coffee. Mom's at the counter, humming off-key, her hair a frizzy halo in the morning light. She doesn't look up as I grab an apple. "Elara, don't forget your scarf—it's chilly!" she calls as I head for the door. I pause, half-smiling, though she can't see it. Her voice is warm, too loud, like she's trying to fill the quiet I carry. "Love you!" she shouts as the door swings shut. I don't answer. I never do.
Outside, the college town is waking up, streets buzzing with early risers and delivery trucks. I slip my headphones on, soft indie music wrapping around me like a cocoon. This is my world, I think, small, safe, mine. My sneakers scuff the pavement as I walk, the sweater's sleeves dangling past my fingertips. The air smells of rain and coffee shops, and I let it ground me, pulling me away from the dream's sharp edges.
The subway station is a few blocks away, all concrete and flickering lights. I swipe my pass and find a spot on the platform, leaning against a pillar. The morning crowd mills around—students, suits, a guy with a guitar case. I keep my head down, music humming in my ears, watching the tiles under my feet.
One, two, three cracks, I count, a habit from darker days. Time slips, the platform filling, the air thick with chatter I can't join.
A shadow falls over me. I look up, startled, yanking off my headphones. A man stands there, older, with a backpack and a confused smile. His accent is thick, foreign. "Excuse me, miss? How to get to… uh, Central Square?" He holds out a crumpled map, his eyes hopeful.
My stomach twists. I open my mouth, but nothing comes. I can't. My hands lift, signing slowly—train, two stop, left—but his brow furrows, and he shakes his head. "Sorry, I don't…" he trails off, embarrassed. I freeze, heat creeping up my neck. Why does this always feel like failing? I reach for the notebook in my bag, fumbling, when—
"Let me help." The voice is low, smooth, like a river over stones. I turn, and there he is.
He's beautiful. Not in a loud way, but quiet, like a painting you can't stop staring at. Dark hair falls into his face, damp from the morning mist, and his eyes—icy blue, sharp enough to cut, soft enough to drown in. He's tall, lean, his jacket worn but fitting him like it was made for his shoulders. My breath catches, and for a moment, I forget the stranger, the map, the world.
He steps closer, glancing at me before turning to the man. "Central Square's two stops that way," he says, pointing to the platform's edge. "Take the red line, get off at the second station, and it's a short walk left." His voice is calm, steady, but there's a weight to it, like he's used to being quiet too.
The man nods, grateful, and hurries off. I'm still staring, my notebook half-open in my hands. He turns to me, and those eyes meet mine. He sees me. Not the mute girl, not the ghost—just me. My heart stumbles, and I don't know why.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice softer now, meant only for me. I nod, too quick, and flip open my notebook, scribbling: "thanks for helping." I hold it up, my hands trembling just enough to notice. He reads it, and a small smile tugs at his lips—not mocking, not pitying, just… kind.
"No problem," he says. "I'm Aiden, by the way." He pauses, like he's waiting for me to speak. I don't. I can't. Instead, I write: "Elara.". His smile grows, just a fraction, and it's like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Elara," he repeats, testing the word. It sounds different in his voice, like it belongs to someone real. "Cool name." He shifts, hands in his pockets, and I notice a scar on his knuckle, faint but there. 'What's your story?' I wonder, but my pen stays still.
The subway rumbles in, brakes squealing. We board, and I expect him to sit far off, but he takes the seat across from me. The car is half-empty, fluorescent lights buzzing. I write: "You didn't have to help." . I show him, and he leans forward, reading.
"Wanted to," he says simply, his eyes locking on mine again. There's something in them, a quiet that feels like mine, like he knows what it's like to carry weight no one sees. 'Who are you?' I think, my pen hovering.
The train slows, and he stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "This is my stop," he says, almost reluctant. I scribble fast: " See you around?" I hold it up, heart pounding. He reads it, and that smile returns, small but real.
"Yeah," he says. "I hope so, Elara."
The doors slide open, and he's gone, disappearing into the crowd. I stare at the empty seat, my notebook still open, his name echoing in my head. Aiden. For the first time in years, the silence feels different—lighter, like it might not last forever.