Liya had always been composed.
She didn't cry at tragic scenes in movies.
She didn't panic before exams.
She didn't even lose control when her parents argued across video calls, their voices sharp and distant.
Yet now, she sat on the edge of her bed, fingers locked together, her breathing uneven.
Nothing had happened.
That was the problem.
After Zen's performance, she had done all the normal things.
She applauded.
She smiled.
She teased Alex as they walked out.
And then—
something inside her collapsed.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just… suddenly.
Her chest felt hollow, as if a door had been left open somewhere deep inside her, letting something precious slip out without permission.
Liya pressed her palm against her sternum, frowning.
"This makes no sense," she whispered.
She wasn't heartbroken.
Zen wasn't her boyfriend.
They hadn't promised each other anything.
She barely knew what he thought of her at all.
So why did it feel like she was mourning something she couldn't even name?
She closed her eyes, hoping the feeling would pass.
Instead—
Water rushed through her senses.
Not imagined.
Not dreamed.
A shoreline stretched beneath a fading sky.
Wind tangled with fabric.
Two hands reached for each other—
Almost touching.
Never quite meeting.
A sharp ache pierced her chest.
Liya inhaled sharply and opened her eyes, heart racing.
"No," she said aloud, voice trembling.
"That wasn't… mine."
The images didn't feel like memories.
They felt foreign.
As if someone else's sorrow had wandered into her heart and decided to stay.
She hugged her arms around herself, suddenly cold.
"Why does it hurt like this…?"
A knock echoed through the room.
She startled.
"Liya?"
Zen's voice—bright, familiar—filtered through the door.
"Alex said you left this behind. Again."
She wiped her eyes quickly, stood, and opened the door before she could overthink it.
Zen stood there holding her water bottle like it was a trophy.
"You'd honestly forget to breathe if someone didn't remind you," he said lightly.
She laughed—but the sound came out too fast, too thin.
Zen's expression shifted.
Just a little.
"Hey," he said, lowering his voice. "You okay?"
The concern wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't possessive.
That made it worse.
Liya hesitated.
She could lie.
She should lie.
Instead, the truth slipped free.
"Zen… have you ever felt something that didn't belong to you?"
He blinked. "What?"
She searched his face, trying to explain something she didn't understand herself.
"Like your heart remembers something your mind doesn't," she said softly.
"Like you're carrying emotions you never lived."
For a brief second, Zen went still.
A flash—salt air, warmth against his palm—brushed the edge of his thoughts.
Then he smiled, gentle but dismissive.
"You're probably exhausted," he said. "You overthink when you're tired."
Liya nodded, even though disappointment tightened her chest.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Maybe."
Zen reached out and rested his hand lightly on her head, giving a small, affectionate pat.
A simple gesture.
Unthinking.
But Liya leaned into it before she could stop herself.
The ache inside her softened—not gone, just quieter.
Zen didn't notice the shift.
He never noticed the effect he had on people.
"That helped," she said, managing a smile.
"Good." He grinned. "Doctor Zen, at your service."
She laughed again, this time more naturally.
After he left, Liya closed the door slowly and rested her back against it.
Her heart still hurt.
But when Zen was near, the pain dulled—like something sharp wrapped carefully in cloth.
This sadness wasn't hers.
She was certain of that now.
And yet—
It was settling deeper, threading itself through her emotions, shaping the way she looked at him.
Liya slid down to the floor, knees drawn to her chest.
"If this isn't mine," she whispered,
"why does it respond to him?"
She didn't have the answer.
Only the growing fear that whatever she was carrying—
wasn't going to leave quietly.