TW: mentions of death, trauma, grief, and bullying
They were taken from me in an instant. I was just a baby—too young to understand, too small to stop anything. I survived, though sometimes I wonder why it wasn’t all of us. Why them? Why not me?
Ever since, I’ve struggled to find a sense of purpose—constantly questioning the value in anything I accomplished. I couldn’t see what my parents once saw in myself. Even now, nearly two decades later, I rely entirely on therapy to get through daily life.
(5 years ago…)
One day, in the middle of a spring school term, a fellow classmate strolled over to me.
“Have you heard? We’re researching an unsolved murder case in class!” he whispered, his voice light hearted, “Apparently it was kind of a big deal fourteen years ago…”
I glanced up at the cherry blossoms to think, calculating silently, as breath caught in my throat. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach.
‘This can’t be happening.’ I began to overthink. ‘He’s talking about my parents, isn’t he?’
No. No, no, no. If we research about this in class, I’ll be exposed. Uncovered.
Even though my thoughts left me conflicted, I, being forced to hold up a strong facade, responded calmly, in the same hushed tone he had used; “Sounds interesting…can’t wait.”
Catastrophe was peeking around the corner. A corner too sharp for me to dodge. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that the two victims had a daughter. And that ‘daughter’ happened to be standing right there, in their class, no less.
(Back to the present…)
School was a living nightmare. The days following my parents’ passing, things were made public in the newspaper as they desperately tried to find who committed such a horrid thing. Due to this being key to the high school project, practically everyone knew of my past. And if I thought they’d be nice, I was as far from right as the Sun is from Pluto. All I ever ‘received’ were snickers in the hallway, passing remarks about being “the victim’s orphan,” and way too many pitying stares from people who clearly didn’t know what to say but wanted credit for trying. Rude nicknames. Awkward silences. Judgment. It was always the judgment.
So, naturally, when you, a new student, arrived, I didn’t get my hopes up. In fact, I bet on all my life savings (which, for the record, could barely buy a pizza) that the class would immediately bombard you with my rumoured backstory before the second period even started.
And they did. Of course they did.
But you… you didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t give as much as a second thought toward what they were saying.
Instead, you turned to me and locked my gaze, even through the suffocating crowd of our classmates around you.
“I’m sorry, Lia.”
Those three, simple words rang relentlessly inside my mind as I stood eerily still, too shocked at your sudden compassion. It was as if the chatter amongst all the chaos surrounding us deafened—my ears now satisfied with the much needed sympathy in your voice that I hadn’t heard for so long.
I blinked, my throat burning with words I couldn’t form.
“S-sorry? I…” my voice trailed off shakily, still trying to comprehend how you apologised, “Thank you.”
It was only then did I realise, between a breath and a second of silence, that I did not know your name.
‘Maybe not everyone defines me purely based on my past after all…’ I hummed, thinking to myself whilst keeping your mysterious eyes locked with mine, ‘And those who don’t, they are certainly one of a kind.’
Writer – Mayah Clements
Editor – Robbie Ge
Artist – Cindy Zhang
–July 2025–
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