The house was alive with sound—laughter, footsteps, voices woven together in warmth—but none of it touched Arin.
He sat quietly at the edge of the living room, hands resting still on his knees, eyes tracing the tiny cracks on the wall. Across the room, his sister Maya shone wit ride, waving her perfect exam results. His parents, Rahim and Amina, smiled wide, voices sweet with praise. Even Sam, the youngest, filled the air with his cheerful giggles.
And Arin…
He was just there.
A strange, soft thought clung to his mind: Maybe I'm optional in his chest like something permanent. It didn't even hurt anymore—it was just part of him.
His fingers brushed against the envelope in his pocket. His own results. No one asked. No one noticed.
He didn't open it.
Dinner passed in the same blur—smiles, conversations, noise—and Arin played his part. He smiled when expected. He answered when asked. He existed, nothing more.
Later, when the house grew quiet and the stars on his ceiling blinked faintly in the dark, he sat on his bed and let the silence wrap around him.
The envelope lay untouched beneath his bed. Forgotten—like him.
But somewhere deep inside, a single thought sparked:
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he would find a place where he wasn't optional.