The house was a bit chilly, but Stella never minded it since Mama and Papa were there to warm it up.
When Stella was little, Papa would grab her hands in his big, rough, and calloused ones. He'd bump the table out of the way with his hip and mess with the radio dial, twisting it until a song came on. Sometimes he made it too loud, and her ears jerked down, so he'd turn it down right away.
After setting it correctly, he'd do this silly deep bow at her with a grin on his face. She'd bow back quickly and with an even bigger grin, ear to ear. After that, he'd hold her hands and start them turning, slow at first. They stumbled on the second spin and laughed, holding on tighter so neither of them fell.
Mama would sit near the window, right where the light hit her hands, yarn pooled in her lap, needles clicking along with the song. "Don't knock over the lamp again," she called without looking up. "And don't encourage her to jump on the couch—no, throwing her is off the list too." Mama smiled as she talked. The needles kept clicking, but every so often her hands paused, eyes lifting to us.
The house smelled like grass from outside, and that blue laundry soap Mama always used. In winter, the windows fogged up and got icy, and everything felt cold, so they'd all end up going in the main bedroom, Mama's and Papa's.
The blanket trailed behind her down the hallway, snagging under her feet as she dragged it along. She almost tripped—stupid short feet. Her ears would flick as she stood in front of her parents, with a lazy smile and her ears wiggling. She liked how Papa's arm wrapped around both of them the best.
Most of the time, it was just her and Mama in the house. Stella didn't mind, really! But Mama was less active. Always sitting there with her knitting. Stella would hop around and make up dances, mostly to see if Mama laughed.
When Papa got home, his drooping shoulders and slouched back straightened out anyway. He still played along. He'd lift her under the arms, her hair sliding over his wrists, a few pale strands catching the light. "Show me what you practiced. Your Papa needs his dose of his favorite Uma," he'd say as he set her down, then dropped onto the couch.
Mama usually cooked their meals—sometimes Papa would, and it would be those noodles Mama always forbade for Stella. He still sneaked her some when Mama wasn't looking. The kitchen filled with steam and the scent of oil and onions, sharp and pungent. Spaghetti with those big meatballs was Stella's favorite—Papa's secret noodles were a close second, but the first only showed up on special days.
Then, when it was time for sleeping, Mama crept into Stella's room with the books from their shelves. The stories ended up being the same ones. They didn't really have a lot, but she still enjoyed it.
Stella messed with the quilt while she listened, tracing little shapes into the fabric with her fingers. Listening until her eyes drooped. Then she tucked her into bed and kissed her goodnight.
One evening, Papa came home with a gray box. Even from a glance, she could tell it was a tablet.
Posters of it used to be taped to lamp posts near the train station and the candy store. He knelt down and held the box out, careful with it. "This is yours," he said. "You're old enough to choose what you want to watch. And I think our little uma needs some reference, doesn't she?"
She zipped around the box, examining it from all angles before lifting it onto her lap. She scratched at the plastic cover, her brows getting more and more furrowed as it wouldn't give or tear. Mama crouched behind Stella and tore through it. After that, Stella still looked over the tablet, not knowing what to do. Mama held her wrists lightly so she wouldn't fumble it. "Go on. Tap it."
The screen lit up. With a couple more taps with Mama guiding her, a video started to play.
At first, it was just bright colors and a track curving under stadium lights. The runners burst forward. Names flashed along the side as the camera shifted. It landed on A.P. Indy for a while. She had no idea who any of them were yet, but she couldn't stop looking at their feet striking the ground.
Ears streaming back. Hair flying behind them in vibrant and distinct colors. Stella's chest went tight. She forgot how to breathe in that very moment. The runners looked close enough to touch, and she leaned toward the screen without thinking. Her eyes tracked every little move. When one edged ahead, overtook, and pushed, her heart jumped hard enough that her ears flicked sharply.
The finish line came at them fast—neck to neck, nearly touching—and one of them won by a hair.
Then the stage lights came up, showering all of them, the winner in the middle, along with the leading ones by her sides. Flushed and shining, sweat darkening their costumes as they sang through the screen. The speakers filled the room. They moved in time with each other, steps clean, hands cutting through the air.
Stella wiggled out of Mama's hold, suddenly bursting with energy. The rug shook under her bare feet when she tried to copy what she saw. Arms going everywhere. Hopping in place until the rug shifted completely, messy and fast. Her hair smacked her back, and one pale strand stuck to her cheek. She missed half the steps and sang mumbled words she didn't know.
Papa blinked once and laughed. "Hahaha! Look at that. I knew it was the best idea. Mama—aren't I a genius?"
Mama clapped first, then gave him a sidelong look, then ignored him. "She's serious about it. Go, Stella, go!"
Stella didn't stop, even when her legs crossed and she tripped. When her voice cracked, she sang louder. The music stopped, and the video reached its end. She stood there breathing hard, her face flushed, and sweat trailing down from her head. She jumped and spread her hands wide.
Papa laughed heartily. "Encore!"
When Mama had tucked her to bed, her eyes didn't droop as usual. She just couldn't sleep. Her chest felt full and jumpy, it wouldn't settle down no matter how much she tossed and turned.
They'd told her before that she was an uma, and she just nodded and didn't think much of it. If being an uma meant she could run like that—sing like that—then she was glad for it. Her ears didn't feel weird to her.
They felt like proof she could do something. Mama used to call it a gift, brushing her hair and pushing the pale strands down, even though they never stayed.
And then…
It didn't change immediately. The arguments started as whispers outside her door at night. Stella sat on her bed with the tablet on her knees and turned the volume up to cover it.
She'd pull her blanket over herself. It couldn't fully cover her anymore, but it was still what she had. The screen glowed against her pale skin. On it, girls trained on dirt tracks, laughing between sprints.
The entrance door slammed somewhere down the hall, hard enough to vibrate her wall.
"I told you I'm trying, woman!—How many times do I have to say it?" her father snapped. "How many times do I have to prove it to you? I try this, I try that—"
"Trying doesn't fix it," Mother faintly said. Stella barely heard. "It doesn't fix anything."
"You bitch!—"
Stella pulled the blanket over her ears anyway. It was thin. It didn't block much, and it didn't feel warm like it used to. The words pushed through. She pressed her palms over her ears under the blanket until her ears folded flat, hiding away from all of it. She didn't want this, she didn't like this anymore, she wanted them back.
When Father lost his job, the house felt colder than any of those winter nights, even if there was no snow. He spent long hours absentmindedly staring at the wall, it unnerved her whenever she called out to him, and he ignored her.
He found another job, but there was an accident. The hospital corridors were all white, too bright for her eyes. They rushed through them as fast as they could. She saw him with his leg unmoving beneath a blanket, his hand gripping the sheet hard enough to bunch and tear the fabric. His face was full of fury.
After that, the bottles started to appear. Sometimes they were empty. Sometimes they shattered against the wall and left dark marks. Mama scrubbed them off without saying anything. Her eyes were puffy a lot, red from crying.
Stella tried not to ask for much. One time, she still did—she nudged Mama and asked if they could watch a performance together. Mama's hand moved too fast and slapped her cheek away.
"I'm not in the mood," her mother said, turning back toward her yarn and needles, yet no clacking of needles was ever heard, she just held it. "Just leave."
She had locked herself up and cried the rest of the day.
She never tried again.
Father stopped dancing. He stopped lifting her. He was just there on the couch, drinking and leaving those stupid bottles on the floor. She nearly tripped on them at times. Playing in the living room wasn't fun anymore.
She just holed up in her room most of the time with her tablet. The videos of races and dances were enough to calm her down for a while, to let her ignore it for a while, to make the pain in her chest stop.
The fighting no longer waited for once a month. It became every day. Sometimes twice.
One night, the noise outside her door swelled until Stella couldn't breathe around it anymore. She sat on her bed with the tablet in her lap.
Yet no matter how much she watched, droplets fell on the screen. When she wiped them, her hands came away wet, and the tears mixed with sweat made her eyes sting.
Something hit the door hard.
Moving without thinking. The tablet slid off the bed and clattered on the floorboards. She didn't bother picking it up anymore. She dragged a chair across the room. When it was set, she climbed onto it. The window wouldn't budge at first. She shoved harder until it gave way, and cold air cracked across her face.
The night hit her face.
She hoisted one leg over the window, then the other, scraping her knee when she dropped. The ground was lower than she expected. She tumbled and fell into the ditch past the yard. Mud stained her. It got in her hair, smeared up her arms, and streaked her cheek.
She pushed herself up anyway.
Her breathing kept catching as she ran. Grass smacked her calves. Small stones hurt her feet. Her ears tipped back toward the shouting behind her, but she didn't slow down.
Her legs moved faster once she reached the fields. Mud flew off the soles of her bare feet when she ran. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck, wet and heavy.
"Waaah—!"
A sound came out of her—raw, ugly, full of pain. She kept running until the ground rose under her without warning. She tripped again and hit the grass hard.
For a moment, she didn't move.
The sky above her was dark and full of stars. No moon yet, but the stars were scattered thick enough to see clearly. They felt close. Close enough that she lifted one hand toward them, fingers spread, mud drying along her knuckles.
Her breathing began to slow.
The field smelled clean. The wind brushed over her ears, and they twitched on their own.
"Hey! I found her!"
The voice cut across the grass.
"Are you okay?" another one called.
Footsteps pushed through the field. Someone gasped. "Oh my God, look at her!"
Stella kept her hand raised toward the sky, fingers trembling slightly, the stars shining above her.
~**~
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm on her phone went off. Way too loud for how badly she'd slept. Her "bed" didn't help. Stella reached for it with one hand, missed, and smacked the hard concrete floor. She hissed, found the screen, and slapped it quiet.
Silence.
Not the good kind, thanks to knowing that three more sat in the queue. Insurance that she wouldn't fall back asleep.
Her body didn't want to move. Everything hurt in that thick soreness that meant she'd done it again.
She told herself she should ease up. The other voice showed up anyway. If you ease up, you get worse. If you rest, you lose what little you have. She couldn't afford to get worse.
The race was coming up.
The ceiling fan spun above her, slowly and lazily, and barely even moved the air. Hot days were miserable. Some nights weren't even better. She'd wake up damp and sticky.
The AC unit did nothing. It was an oversized eyesore on the wall.
The apartment was like that in general. She didn't even pay for the rent herself—a distant relative did—and that thought always came with a second one. It could be worse.
She pushed herself up anyway.
Oh no, she stood up too fast. A grueling headache sparked behind her eyes, and she froze, trying not to fall down, breathing through it until it eased.
She looked around the room. A "bed" consisting of a mattress on the floor. A poor excuse of a curtain barely blocked the light. And one wobbly table with a stubby leg.
There wasn't anything else. She didn't have money for "anything else," and there wasn't anyone she was trying to impress in here.
Her poster was still there, though.
"DON'T GIVE UP," taped up crooked, edges curled. A.P. Indy smiling, not a shred of hesitation in her eyes. Stella stared a little too long. The print had faded. One of the corners was torn, and the duct tape she had used on it only made it harder to look at.
After the race, she swore she'd buy a new one. Maybe even a figure if she ever found one cheap. She'd always wanted one. But every time she saved up, the prices made her lock up.
Her stomach growled. She pressed a hand against it to shut it up.
The fridge light washed her face yellow as she opened it.
Water. Two eggs. A half-used bottle of something she couldn't remember buying. That was pretty much it. She stood there letting the cold air hit her face, then shut the door before she could think about the electric bill again.
The apartment didn't come with utilities. Those were on her.
She reached for the cupboard.
Instant noodles. Bundle deal from the market. She got the ones with dried carrot bits that stayed small, no matter how long you boiled them. She stared at the packet and felt nothing at all. She used to like this stuff. Back then…
Now it was just some flavored warm water with cheap noodles to fill her stomach so she wouldn't pass out later.
She boiled the water, watched for the bubbles to rise, dropped the noodles, then stirred with a fork. One plate. A couple of pots. One spoon-and-fork set. That was her whole kitchen.
The carrots floated to the surface and puffed up a little, tiny, and clearly vibrant from food coloring. Whoever created these wanted to make them a little bit appetizing.
She twisted the knob and turned off the stove, blew on the noodles as she lifted them up, eating with the pot standing up. Sitting didn't change anything. And if she didn't use a bowl, that was one less thing to wash.
Between bites, she stared at the clock hung on the empty wall.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
She couldn't stand it here. The earlier she got out, the better.
She finished and moved to rinse the pot. Careful not to scrub too hard because the sponge was falling apart, and the green abrasive part was already peeling away. She checked her phone.
Later than she wanted.
She swore under her breath, grabbed her bag, and dashed out the door.
~**~
By the time she sat in class, she was already waiting for the ending bell to chime.
Algebra filled the room with dull lectures about rules, steps, "show your solution," as if any of it mattered right now. Stella wrote down what she needed to write down. Pencil moving. Her brain felt somewhere else. She kept checking the clock above the board, waiting for the hands to crawl to dismissal.
A girl in front of her whispered to her seatmate. Someone else laughed and she could see someone passing down a note.
None of it was for her. That was fine. Better than being dragged into something. Better than getting invited to something she'd have to refuse.
The teacher finally closed his book. The sound echoed in the room.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped. People stood up with their voices getting even louder. A group behind her argued about a café that sold good carrot cake.
Stella was already moving. She didn't look back.
A classmate stepped into her path, half smiling.
"Hey," the girl said. "You—are you going to the gym again? Today?"
Stella paused. Eyes widened in surprise, and a small shine almost caught in before she caught herself. Her face went back to that tired, flat look.
She didn't answer right away—there wasn't time for this. The race was getting closer, and she needed every minute she had.
The girl's smile wobbled. She tried again. "I just—uh. We were gonna grab food after. Some of us. If you want—"
Stella slid past her and reached for the door. Her palms were damp.
"Okay," the girl said, too fast. "Yeah. Sure…"
Someone behind them sighed. "You don't have to bother with her—"
Stella was already in the hallway. The voices blurred into the background. She heard the small relief in their laughter when the awkward moment ended.
~**~
The old gym was the same as always. It was one of the only places in school that didn't make Stella feel watched.
A newer gym sat on campus now. It was bigger, cleaner, and regularly maintained. This one got turned into storage.
Paint was worn off the walls in patches. Rust sat on the corners of the equipment. A fan clicked every few seconds as it spun. Another fan had no outer casing at all—blades exposed, stupid and dangerous. She didn't dare to turn that one on or get anywhere near it.
Boxes were stacked along the side. Dust trails and drag marks ran across the floor. Stella had organized most of it herself. Before she got access, it was just junk thrown wherever people felt like it.
Someone should've fixed this months ago.
Permission had been the harder part. She'd asked as politely as she could until someone finally handed her a key. The coach looked confused. He shrugged and said yes.
She set her backpack down. Tied her hair back into a ponytail and tightened her shoelaces as she took one deep breath.
Basic first. Push-ups. Squats. Planks until her arms shook.
Counting under her breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. It kept her brain steady.
Out here, nobody saw her struggling. Nobody stared like she was supposed to be some monster athlete just because she had ears and a tail. When she first transferred, people expected that. They watched her, waiting for her to prove something.
She never did.
She was stronger than an average human. Barely. But for an Uma? She could barely be considered one.
After her routine, she ran laps around the gym. Just a loop around the small area of the gym already filled with boxes. There were way too many turns for the clutter. Her joints didn't like it.
The field outside was usually taken—a tennis club, baseball club, sometimes both.
Her breathing got harsh. Her shirt stuck to her back.
A quick picture flashed in her head—students outside a convenience store after class, sharing chips, passing a drink around, arguing about some game.
She kept running.
She didn't have time for clubs. She didn't have money for coaching. She followed the plans she found online. Free videos. Free advice. She didn't need perfect.
She just needed better.
She set her phone on the floor by her bag, opened the timer, and hit start.
Another lap.
Come on. One second. Half a second. Anything.
Another flash—an arcade. Bright screens. A girl tugging her friend toward a claw machine. Food stalls. Plastic cups. Laughing for no reason.
Stella ran faster like she could outrun it.
Her legs started to burn. Her throat went dry, and her lips cracked. She blinked hard and kept moving.
When she reached the end, she stopped and grabbed her water bottle, downing it all in one go.
She checked the timer with shaky and strained hands.
Half a second less.
A faint smile formed on her face, not quite reaching her eyes. Good.
She grabbed a towel and wiped her face, her neck, her hands. She stuffed the towel back into her bag and headed upstairs.
The music room was on the top floor, where the hallway was quiet. Almost nobody came up here. Not teachers. Not janitors. Not the peer facilitators who always found something to complain about. Stella hated that club. She'd gotten snitched on before.
The singing club that used to use this room was gone. Merged into the music club, moved to the auditorium. So the room stayed empty most days.
Folding chairs and the shelves were set aside on the walls. A cracked mirror hung on the wall. One side warped you if you stood in the wrong spot.
She'd asked permission as politely as she could. One teacher looked surprised that anyone still cared. After that, he just handed her a key. "Just lock it after."
Egg cartons were taped over the walls and ceiling. Cheap soundproofing, but it worked. More than enough for one person.
She dropped her bag and sat on the floor for a second. Her heart was still beating too hard from the gym.
She pulled out the old tablet from her backpack.
Screen cracked, spider lines in the corner. Some spots lagged. Some spots barely responded. She'd learned the dead zones by heart.
She turned it on. The glow filled the room.
She opened a video she'd downloaded. Dance practice. The screen filled with singing, bright lighting and girls swaying to the beat perfectly.
Stella stood up.
She copied the first steps.
Legs felt heavy, the balance was off, and her arms came way too late. Her body stiffened up, and she missed the timing.
She did it again.
Again.
Voice cracking when she tried to sing along. She swallowed, tried again, forced her throat to work.
This wasn't for fun or to look cute. She wasn't doing this to belong in some group.
She had signed up for a maiden race.
The paperwork was done, all of the stamps and signatures, the fee she saved up for. A teacher let her put the school down as her reference. She planned the route to the venue. Checked the commute until she could see it in her head. Bought medical tape. Bought better shoes, even.
This wasn't a poster anymore. It wasn't just a video on a cracked screen.
She was going to show up.
And she wasn't going there to be a joke.
She ran the routine again. Arms shaking and legs stiff.
Her timing was still off. Her breathing was loud in the quiet room.
Ten days left.