I never knew silence could be so loud.
The moment I stepped onto the stage for the school's inter-house presentation competition, everything else around me dissolved — the chatter, the murmurs, the faint hum of the ceiling fans. Just me. And the weight of a thousand doubts screaming inside my head.
Weeks of preparing, of Kaiya pushing me to speak out loud, to believe in the story I'd written — and now, here I was. Alone.
It was strange. I wasn't even holding the mic yet, and my palms were already wet, my vision slightly blurred. My heart thudded as if it was trying to escape my chest. I looked at the expectant faces of the audience, their expressions unreadable in the auditorium's dim lighting. A wave of uncertainty crashed against my spine.
My fingers twitched. I remembered the drawing. The staircase. The lightbulb. All the metaphors we'd carved into my mind to represent growth. And still, this moment felt too big, too consuming.
I took a breath. Then another. And then, I spoke.
Not loudly. Not confidently. Just honestly.
"My name is Kai."
There was a pause. No response. But something in me refused to step back. I clenched the paper in my hand and began.
"This... this is a story I wrote. About someone who didn't believe in himself until he had no other choice but to grow."
I glanced toward the second row. Kaiya was sitting there, her eyes locked with mine, her slight smile a tether to everything I had worked for. I clung to it like a lifeline.
The words started flowing. Shaky at first, like a creek cutting through frozen earth. But then they found rhythm. They grew louder, more certain. I wasn't reading anymore. I was speaking. Sharing.
And in that moment, I was not the boy whose parents had called him a curse. Not the kid who had failed his math test or got laughed at in physics class. I was someone rising — stumbling maybe, but still rising.
The story ended with silence. Real, complete silence. And in that second of stillness, I heard the sound of my own heart — not racing in fear, but in something like pride.
Then came the applause. It wasn't thunderous. But it was there. And more importantly, it was real.
When I stepped down from the stage, I couldn't look up at anyone. I wanted to shrink into the shadows. Until I felt a hand slide into mine.
Kaiya.
"That was amazing," she whispered, not letting go.
"It was... okay," I said, my voice cracking slightly.
"No, Kai. It was you. And that's more than enough."
We walked out into the hallway, the cool breeze a welcome contrast to the warmth inside my chest. The sun was setting, casting golden light on the cracked tiles beneath our feet. Everything looked broken. And beautiful.
"I still feel like I'm pretending," I admitted.
"You're not pretending," she replied. "You're becoming."
I don't know why, but those words hit harder than any compliment. I leaned against the wall, staring at the sky.
"You know... I used to think my life was like that drawing — the boy half submerged in water. Always sinking. Never rising."
"But that boy wasn't drowning," she said softly. "He was learning how to breathe."
A quiet settled between us — not the awkward kind, but the kind that carries unspoken understanding. I turned to her, heart drumming.
"Do you ever think we were meant to meet?" I asked.
She smiled. "Well, our names matched first. Then our hearts."
I couldn't help but laugh. That light, joyful kind I hadn't felt in years.
And just as I thought things were finally shifting — finally getting better — life, in all its unpredictable nature, struck again.
It happened two days later.
I came home to find my father sitting in the dark. The air was thick with something I couldn't name. My mother was pacing the hallway, a phone pressed to her ear. Her words were hushed but urgent.
"Kai," my father called out. "Sit."
I did.
He held out a letter. From a prestigious science summer program I had secretly applied to with Kaiya's help. One I never thought I'd get into.
I opened it. Read the first few lines. My hands trembled.
I'd been accepted.
I looked up, a smile forming — until I saw his face.
"This... is a waste," he said.
The words sliced clean. Sharper than any insult.
"You think reading one piece on stage makes you a genius? Don't get ahead of yourself."
"I'm not—" I started.
"You're still the same," he interrupted. "Don't fool yourself, or you'll fall harder."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
That night, I stared at the ceiling, unsure whether the tear trailing down my cheek was from pain... or rage.
The next morning, I didn't go to school.
I went to the bus stop outside the city.
Ticket in hand. Bag over my shoulder.
Kaiya found me there.
"I knew you'd try something like this," she said, panting, clearly having run.
"I have to go," I said. "I need to become something away from all this."
She grabbed my wrist.
"Then let me come with you."
"No," I said. "Not this time. This… this I have to do alone."
Her eyes shimmered. Not from sadness — from understanding.
"I'll be waiting," she whispered. "Just don't lose yourself in the noise."
I nodded, stepping into the bus, the door closing behind me.
As it pulled away, I didn't look back.
Because I knew — the next time I saw her, I wouldn't be half-submerged.
I'd be rising.
End of Chapter 13