ukian sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor.

The apartment was silent.

It had always been this way.

The only sound came from the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, echoing through the empty space. No voices. No warmth. Just the hum of a place that was supposed to be home, but never really felt like one.

She glanced at her phone. No messages. No missed calls. Not that she expected any.

Her parents hadn't been home when she got back from school. They never were.

Her mother, once a loving and gentle woman, now barely spoke to her. If they passed by each other in the hallway, she would only offer a distracted, "You ate, right?" before going back to work in her home office.

Her father wasn't any better. He left before sunrise and came home long after midnight, sometimes skipping days altogether. When he was home, he was too exhausted to acknowledge her. The most she got was a tired nod before he collapsed into bed.

It hadn't always been like this.

She remembered a time—years ago—when her parents actually cared.

Back when they used to have dinner together, talk about their days, and go on trips during summer break. She used to ride on her father's shoulders at festivals, eating taiyaki while fireworks painted the sky.

She used to sit beside her mother at the kotatsu during winter, sipping warm tea while listening to old stories.

But then—things changed.

Her father got a promotion. Work became his entire life. He stopped coming home as often, stopped smiling as much, stopped noticing her at all.

Her mother, once full of warmth, grew colder. She started locking herself in her office, drowning in stress and exhaustion. Some nights, Yukian could hear her arguing with her father over the phone, her voice sharp and frustrated.

Somewhere along the way, they forgot they had a daughter.

And Yukian learned how to live as a ghost in her own home.

The Dinner Table

Her stomach ached, a dull reminder that she hadn't eaten since lunch. With a sigh, she pushed herself up and walked to the kitchen.

She opened the fridge.

Mostly empty.

A few eggs, a bottle of tea, and a leftover rice ball wrapped in plastic sat on the shelf. She grabbed it and unwrapped the plastic, taking small bites as she leaned against the counter.

The rice was cold, but she didn't care.

As she ate, the front door clicked open.

Footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Her mother walked into the kitchen, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. She barely looked up as she grabbed a glass and filled it with water.

"You're still awake?" her mother murmured, taking a sip.

Yukian swallowed the last bite of her rice ball and nodded. "Yeah."

Her mother glanced at the clock, then at Yukian's uniform, which was still damp from the juice spill earlier.

"You should change," she said simply. "You'll get sick."

Yukian hesitated. "Mom... did you eat dinner?"

Her mother tapped at her phone. "I'll eat later. I have work to finish."

She turned to leave.

Yukian took a step forward, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

She didn't know why, but she suddenly felt desperate to say something. To break the silence.

"Mom."

Her mother paused. "Hm?"

For a split second, Yukian considered telling her everything.

That she was being bullied. That she had no friends. That every day felt like hell. That she didn't know how much longer she could keep going.

But the words wouldn't come out.

Her mother sighed, still focused on her phone. "What is it?"

Yukian looked down.

"...Never mind."

Her mother didn't question it. She simply walked away, disappearing into her office like always.

The door shut behind her.

And just like that, Yukian was alone again.

A Hollow Night

Yukian dragged herself back to her room and changed into a baggy hoodie and sweatpants. She collapsed onto her bed, pulling the blanket over her head, burying herself in the darkness.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to sleep, but her mind wouldn't stop racing.

No one at school cares.

No one at home cares.

Does anyone care at all?

She gripped the blanket tighter.

Her chest ached, but there were no tears left to cry.

Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Maybe tomorrow someone would finally notice her.

Maybe tomorrow she wouldn't feel so... empty.

But deep down, she already knew.

Tomorrow would be exactly the same.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Forever.