The apartment was dark when Yukian woke up.

For a moment, she thought it was still the middle of the night. But when she turned over and checked the time, the red glow of her alarm clock read 10:17 AM.

It was Saturday.

She had slept in, but she didn't feel rested.

With a sigh, she sat up and ran a hand through her messy black hair. The room was cold, the air outside gray and heavy with unfallen rain. She glanced at her phone.

No messages. No notifications.

Of course.

She tossed the phone onto her blanket and got up, dragging herself to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

The same dull eyes. The same empty stare.

She tied her hair into a low ponytail and stepped out into the hallway.

The apartment was silent, but for once, she wasn't alone.

She heard voices coming from the living room.

Her parents.

Yukian blinked. It was rare for them to be home at the same time, even rarer for them to actually talk to each other.

Slowly, she stepped closer.

She didn't mean to eavesdrop, but when she heard her name, she froze.

Her mother's voice was quiet but sharp. "I don't know what to do with her anymore."

Yukian's breath caught in her throat.

Her father sighed. "What do you mean?"

"She barely speaks. She comes home and locks herself in her room. She doesn't ask for anything, doesn't complain, doesn't... do anything."

There was a pause.

Then her mother's voice softened, but not in the way that meant she cared. It was the kind of softness people used when they gave up.

"It's like she's not even there."

Yukian's fingers curled against the wall.

Her father exhaled heavily. "She's a teenager. Maybe it's just a phase."

"A phase?" Her mother let out a bitter laugh. "She used to be so bright, you know? She used to talk to me about school, about books, about games. Now she won't even look at me. I don't know when it happened, but it's like she just... disappeared."

Yukian's chest tightened.

She wanted to step into the room, wanted to tell them she was still here, that she was still their daughter.

But something told her that if she walked in, the conversation would end. They would act like nothing had happened.

Because to them, she wasn't a person anymore.

She was just a problem.

Her father spoke again, his tone indifferent. "Well, she's not causing trouble, is she? She's keeping her grades up. Maybe she just likes being alone."

"That's not the point," her mother snapped. "She's not living. She's just—" She hesitated. "She's just existing."

Another pause.

Then, more softly, her mother whispered, "Do you think she's happy?"

Her father didn't answer.

Yukian didn't stay to hear the rest.

She turned away, walking silently back to her room, closing the door without a sound.

She sat on the bed, staring at her hands.

She's not living. She's just existing.

The words repeated in her head, looping like a broken record.

Her mother was right.

She wasn't living.

She was just there.

The Weight of the Words

Yukian lay down, pulling the blanket over her head.

Her parents had finally noticed.

But not in the way she had wanted.

They saw her as a shadow—a fading outline of someone she used to be. Not enough to worry, not enough to ask what was wrong. Just enough to comment.

She pressed her face into the pillow, her chest hollow.

Maybe if she disappeared, they would finally care.

Maybe that was the only way.