Years passed in quiet misery.
Lilly moved through school unnoticed.
No friend stayed.
Every connection crumbled.
Her home offered only neglect.
Her parents' indifference was unchanged. She had learned early that life did not owe her anything.
Even the few moments when someone tried to reach her—classmates who smiled, a teacher who praised her work—were illusions.
They flared briefly, then vanished, leaving her emptier than before.
The warmth she once felt became a memory, and the ache of wanting more grew sharper.
Happiness is not for me, she whispered.
It comes close only to remind me I cannot hold it.
She stopped seeking connection.
She stopped reaching.
She existed quietly, painfully, like a shadow slipping through the world, never noticed, never cared for.