They say that when everything ends, a new beginning takes shape.
But for me, every day felt like a repetitive loop of shadows and silence.
My name is Jia.
I am a high school student, though I prefer to think of myself as a ghost.
I have spent years perfecting the art of being invisible.
The weather was pleasant today—the kind of sun that makes people smile.
But my mind was elsewhere, trapped in the suffocating memories of last night.
I stood at the bus stop, clutching my bag like a shield.
When the bus finally hissed to a stop, I stepped inside and chose a seat at the very back.
I wanted to blend into the cracked leather and the dust.
That's when I saw him.
He was sitting directly across from me, framed by the late afternoon light.
He didn't look like the other students.
His name was Jinu—I could see it written on the tag pinned to his blazer.
But it wasn't his name that haunted me.
His lip was split and bleeding, a fresh crimson mark against his pale skin.
Yet, he didn't seem to feel the pain.
His eyes held a depth of emptiness that made my own heart ache in a way I couldn't explain.
I wanted to reach out, to offer a tissue, or maybe just a kind word.
But the words died in my throat.
Jinu remained silent, staring out the window as if the world outside was a movie he didn't want to watch.
When the bus reached the next stop, he stood up abruptly and walked away.
He vanished into the crowd, leaving behind a cold emptiness on the seat.
And something else.
A small, plastic Name Tag.
I reached out and picked it up.
My fingers trembled as I touched the cold surface.
A strange, electric connection surged through me.
Coming home was always the hardest part of my day.
The moment I opened the door, the heavy stench of cheap alcohol hit me like a wall.
I could hear my father's heavy, uneven breathing from the living room.
To escape the fear, I locked myself in my room and put on my headphones.
The music drowned out the reality of my broken home.
I grabbed my pencil and opened my sketchbook to a fresh, white page.
My hand moved on its own, tracing the lines of a face I had only seen for a few minutes.
I drew his eyes—the hollow gaze, the hidden mystery, and the heavy silence.
As the sketch took shape, the chaos in my chest began to settle.
Holding the drawing close to my heart, I finally found a moment of peace.