In an age where silence and uncertainty feel like unbearable burdens, the human mind reflexively turns to the glowing rectangular glass in their palms: phones. At the softest tap of a finger, a sea of immediate answers spills across the screen, an unending torrent of links and endless echo chambers of so-called answers, offering instant clarity at the cost of genuine contemplation.

Outside, birds trilled through the quiet morning air while a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, sending a soft, soothing murmur against the windowpane. A pale beam of sunlight stretched across the room, warmly kissing the edge of the bed and the plush toys scattered across it.

The bedsheets rustled and squeaked as she pushed herself up, her hair a tangled mess. Blinking against the sudden brightness, she gazed out the window at two birds perched upon a branch, the harsh morning light temporarily blinding her. Leaving the warmth of the bed behind, she crossed the room and came to a halt before the mirror.

“Hi, my name is Samantha…”

“Hi…Everyone…”

“Classmates, I’m Sammy.” She slowly recited it over and over, changing into her uniform, and kept staring at herself. 

She stood frozen before the full-length mirror, her reflection staring back with a hollow, deadpan gaze. The school uniform clung to her frame, the stiff fabric pulling tightly across her chest and shoulders, not quite enough to suffocate, but enough to feel like an unrelenting grip. Her fingers brushed nervously through her hair, twitching and rearranging the strands in a restless, mechanical loop as if trying to smooth away the rising tension in the room.

“I’m Sam.”

She inhaled a sharp, clinical breath, letting the air settle heavily in her chest before releasing it in a slow, calculated exhale. Her eyes remained locked on the glass as she attempted to contort her features into a grin, or some hollow approximation of one. The result was a jarring, artificial mask, radiating a sense of forced deception that felt entirely alien to her face.

The wooden steps creaked softly under her feet as she descended into the lower floor. Silence hung heavy in the room, thick and suffocating. No warmth came from the kitchen, no scent of morning coffee or sizzling breakfast, just an empty, polished dining table sitting under muted shadows. The light switches remained untouched, but drawn-back curtains allowed pale, watery sunlight to spill across the floorboards. Rather than bringing warmth, the daylight only laid bare the quiet emptiness of the house.

As her foot hit the final step, a soft movement brushed against her ankle. She stopped. Looking down, she met the steady, unblinking gaze of a short-haired grey cat with striking, jade-green eyes. It let out a low, thread-like meow, rubbing its side against her shin. She crouched down, her fingers sinking briefly into its cool, soft fur, tracing the curve of its spine in a single, mechanical rhythm. Without a word, she stood back up, turned toward the front door, and stepped out into the morning chill.

The heavy deadbolt clicked into place with a sharp metallic snap. For a brief second, her eyes swept over the faded paint of the front porch before she turned toward the pavement.

The commute was short, a brief, ten-minute walk through familiar neighborhood streets, but time seemed to stretch thin. All around her, the morning rushed by in a blur of mundane routines: commuters striding toward bus stops, store owners rolling up metal shutters, and groups of students chatting animatedly on corners. 

Yet, to her, the entire scene felt completely desaturated. The colors of the world were washed out, muted into a dull, chalky grey. Nothing caught her attention; nothing managed to pull her out of the deep, suffocating boredom that clung to her every thought.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

The sharp, rhythmic snap of her heels echoed off the high ceilings of the school corridor. She moved down the quiet hallway, her eyes casually tracing the brass nameplates mounted next to each wooden doorframe. Room after room passed until her footsteps slowed to a complete halt.

"Ah... there it is," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the faint murmur of classrooms nearby.

The plaque beside the doorway read: Grade 11 – Saint Cecilia.

She raised her hand and knocked twice against the heavy wood. Inside, the muffled voice of an instructor called for quiet, announcing to the class that their new classmate had arrived. Seconds later, the door slid open, and the teacher gestured for her to step inside.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

She crossed the threshold and stepped onto the raised wooden platform at the front of the room. Turning to face the crowd, she forced her lips upward into a slight smile. It wasn't menacing or eerie, but it felt deeply unnatural, an uncanny, practiced gesture that lacked any trace of genuine warmth.

Most of the teenagers sitting at the desks hardly bothered to look up. A few students near the back were busy folding paper, a small group whispered behind raised textbooks, and one boy near the window lay completely flat across his desk, fast asleep. The room was a familiar mosaic of teenage indifference.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Three short syllables, “I’m Sam,” offered no hook, no enthusiasm, and no invitation for follow-up questions. It hung in the air like a dropped object, flat and indifferent.

At the front desk, Mrs. Santos blinked, her warm, welcoming expression flickering for a fraction of a second before recovering. She cleared her throat, adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of her nose.

"Well... welcome to Saint Cecilia, Sam. We’re very happy to have you with us." The teacher scanned the grid of wooden desks, her eyes landing on an open seat near the back row, adjacent to the tall glass windows.

"Why don't you take that empty desk right beside Marco? Marco, raise your hand, please."

A boy near the window, the one who had been slumped over his arms moments ago, grunted softly, lifting a lazy hand without bothering to raise his head completely from his desk.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

Tak.

Sam walked down the narrow aisle. The faint scent of floor wax, old paper, and dust drifted through the air. A few gaze-tracks followed her movement, but most of her new classmates had already lost interest, returning to their muttered conversations, hidden phone screens, and half-drawn doodles in notebook margins. To them, she was just another background character in a long, boring school year.

She slid into the cool wooden chair and set her bag beside her desk. Outside the window, the sky was a flat, uniform sheet of pale grey. A solitary crow perched on the basketball hoop in the courtyard below, preening its dark feathers before taking flight into the quiet morning air.

Sam reached down into the side pocket of her bag. Her fingers brushed past a crumpled receipt, a dry-erase marker, and the smooth metal casing of a lipstick tube before wrapping around her phone.

The screen was spider-webbed with fine, jagged cracks that refracted the blue back-light into tiny prisms. Across the center of the glass lay a sticky, rusty-brown smear that had already begun to dry around the edges. Beneath her fingernails, the dark crimson stain was stubborn, settling deep into the tiny creases of her skin.

She shifted slightly in her seat, angling the phone toward her chest so Marco’s half-asleep eyes couldn't catch a glimpse of the display. Sometimes you find yourself searching for the most absurd things online just to quiet a random, lingering thought.

How long do penguins live in the wild?

How many years are left before the sun expands and ends the world?

Her thumb hovered over the glowing screen. The touch sensor flickered, protesting against the moisture of the blood, but she pressed down firmly. One by one, the letters appeared in the search field, accompanied by the faint, muted clicks of the keyboard as she typed with her fingers tapping on the phone screen.

H-O-W  T-O  H-I-D-E  A  D-E-A-D  B-O-D-Y

She didn't hit enter right away. Instead, she stared at the words, watching the cursor blink rhythmically against the bright background.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

"Alright, everyone," Mrs. Santos’s voice echoed from the front, the sharp snap of chalk against the blackboard cutting through the low hum of the classroom. "Turn your textbooks to page 104. We're picking up where we left off yesterday with the Philippine revolution..."

Beside her, Marco let out a long, theatrical sigh, shifting his weight to prop his chin on his palm. He glanced sideways for a split second, his eyes catching the subtle movement of Sam's hands underneath her desk.

"Forgot your textbook?" he asked in a low, raspy murmur, not particularly caring either way. Sam didn't turn her head. Her thumb tapped the search icon.

"No," she whispered back, her voice completely smooth, devoid of any edge. "I brought everything I need."