Fani couldn't remember the last time she truly felt like part of this house.
Maybe it was that day—the day her small body was thrown onto the asphalt, and the sound of a car horn drowned everything else out. Since then, everything had changed.
It wasn't just her legs that stopped walking.
It was also the doors that quietly shut, the smiles that came less often, and the conversations that began to pass over her—as if she were nothing more than air.
***
In the living room, her mother let out a soft laugh at something her sister said.
There was the smell of vegetables cooking, the TV murmuring in the background, and the clink of spoons against bowls.
From behind her bedroom door—never locked—Fani heard it all. But none of the voices said her name.
She sat at her small desk, staring at the pile of books that had long been her truest companions.
Sometimes she thought, maybe these books were more like family. They never tired of listening.They were never uneasy with her presence. They never forgot to call her by name on every page.
Someone once told her that time heals everything. But the time she knew only made the wounds go deeper, and the silence heavier.
She tried to smile, then gave up.Smiles, sometimes, were like stuck doors. They opened just a little, then froze midway. Neither in nor out.
***
Her phone vibrated gently. One message. From Andini.
"Listening to the rain… do you like the smell of wet earth?"
Fani stared at the screen for a long while. It wasn't raining where she was.
But somehow, something warm crept quietly through her frozen chest.She didn't reply. But for the first time that night, she didn't feel completely alone.
***
Fani turned off the screen, letting the phone rest beside her pillow.The night sky peeked in through the window—grey and empty.
Outside, the chirp of a gecko echoed like some strange irony—such a small creature could still call out, while she had almost forgotten how.
When she was little, she used to ask her mother, "Why did God stop my legs?"
Her mother would just stare at the wall, as if the answer might be written there. It was never really answered. Just left hanging. Eventually, Fani stopped asking.
The nights after that, she spent imagining herself walking.
Not running, not dancing—just walking.
Crossing the street, buying candy, or walking home from school like other kids. Small things that, somehow, felt like unreachable dreams.
***
In the morning, the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen felt like an alarm meant for someone else.
Her mother cooked breakfast for her older siblings. Plates were set on the table. No one called her name.
She was used to preparing her own breakfast, quietly, after everyone else was done.Not because she couldn't be helped, but because she knew: sometimes, the most painful thing isn't being rejected—it's being forgotten.
***
At campus, she was quiet. At home, even quieter.Sometimes she wondered—was this really what a place called home was supposed to feel like?
But every time Andini's laugh appeared in her memory—too loud sometimes—or those odd little texts, warm in their absurdity, she felt as if a small window opened in her mind.
Not a door. Not yet. But a window was enough.
And in a world as vast and silent as the ocean, even one window could be salvation.
That day, Fani wrote something in her notebook. Not a poem. Not an essay. Just one line:
"Maybe I don't need to be understood. I just want to be acknowledged."
She stared at the words for a long time, then closed the notebook gently. Outside, the sky was turning gray.And somehow, gray always felt like someone who understood—without needing to speak.
***
Andini came that afternoon, unannounced.
She just appeared at Fani's front door with an awkward but sincere face, holding two cups of coffee in a paper bag, and a slightly squished sandwich.
"I didn't know which one you'd like, so I got both," she said, met with no smile from Fani.
But Andini didn't ask for a smile. She just sat on the floor, leaned against the wall near Fani's bed, and said nothing.
A silence that wasn't awkward. Not the kind born of having nothing to say, but the kind born of knowing… not everything needs to be said.
Fani turned toward the window. Rain began to fall, trickling down the glass like someone outside was crying softly.
"I'm tired," Fani said at last, her voice barely audible.
Andini didn't answer. She just glanced over, then nodded gently.
"I'm tired because they see me as a burden. Sometimes, I think that too. I've never been angry with them… but I don't know if I'm still strong enough."
Andini gripped her coffee cup a little tighter. The steam rose slowly, fogging her view just a bit.
"I don't know what it's like to be you," she said.
"But I can sit here. If you need silence, I'll be silent. If you need to cry, then cry. I'm not going anywhere."
Fani said nothing. But her eyes grew blurry. Not from the coffee. Not from the rain.
Andini placed her hand over Fani's cold one.
"If they can't see you… then let's make our own little world where you're real. Where you matter."
And for the first time that day, Fani nodded.
Not because everything was okay. But because, for a moment, she believed that pain could be shared.And maybe, when shared, pain becomes a little less heavy.
***
The room light was dim. The shadow of the window swayed gently in the breeze. The TV murmured faintly from the next room—some show she didn't care to know.
On the desk, her unfinished book lay open to the same page for three days. Her hand held it, but her thoughts wandered far.
She heard laughter from the other room. Her siblings. Her mother. Laughter that had never included her.
It had been a long time since she sat with them. She couldn't even remember the last time her mother hugged her for no practical reason.
Fani took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
In the quiet, she knew: this house had never truly been a place to come home to.
She existed here, but it was as if she didn't. Like a plastic flower in the corner of the living room—kept there because it didn't bother anyone. But never really seen.
***
Years ago, when she was still a child and had just lost the use of her legs, people used to visit.
They brought fruit, prayers, and hollow encouragement. But over time, all of it faded.
What remained were looks of pity… or worse—boredom.
Her mother once said, "Fani has to be strong, so Mama won't be sad."
But since when was being strong a condition for being loved?
Fani closed her eyes.
Silence.And in that silence, the voice she heard wasn't from outside. It was from within. Small, but honest.
"I don't want pity. I just want to be seen."
She reached for her phone. Andini's last message was still there.
Just a star emoji and a line: "The sky's clear over here. You seeing the sky too, Fan?"
Fani smiled faintly.
She pushed aside the curtain. The night sky outside was vast, and she knew—under that same sky, someone was thinking of her.Maybe one person was enough, for now.
Fani stared at her dark phone screen, as if expecting a message from the sky.
None came.
Only her own reflection stared back.
Tired, with half-closed eyes, she placed the phone on her chest. Silence clung like an old blanket—cold and dusty—but too long worn to throw away.
The night sky lingered outside the window.
Her eldest sister passed by her room without looking in. Her footsteps quick, then gone.
The middle one was still laughing at something on TV, the sound leaking through thin walls like an uninvited memory.
Her mother? Either asleep, or pretending no one existed in the farthest room of the house.
Fani breathed in slowly. Of all the houses she'd known, this one felt the most unfamiliar.
Not because she didn't know its hallways, but because she had so often felt unseen within them.
She looked at her wheelchair in the corner—silent and still, like an old cat long forgotten but always faithful.
She whispered, "If I disappeared, would they notice?"
The question floated to the ceiling, then fell, slowly, like dust.
A few minutes later, her phone buzzed. A message from Andini.
"You still there, Fan?"
A short sentence, but it felt like someone knocking from another world. Fani read it, quiet.
Her lips moved slightly. "Yes, Din… I'm still here." But she didn't send it. She kept it to herself, like a small secret she wanted to protect that night.
Instead, she wrote a lighter reply: "Why aren't you asleep yet?"
And somehow, that night didn't feel quite so lonely. Still cold, but no longer frozen.
Still dark, but not as frightening.Because someone, under the same sky, was thinking of her.
Fani placed her phone beside her pillow.
She didn't sleep right away. Her head turned toward the window, watching a sky without stars, without a moon—but still the same sky that covered someone out there.
Someone who didn't leave. Someone who still asked: "Are you still there?"
The night had grown late, but her mind was still awake. Not from noise outside, but from the silence she had let grow inside for so long.
That silence now felt like a seed starting to crack open—not to wound, but to make space for something she hadn't known before—hope, maybe.
She didn't want to hope too much. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, she felt her existence was seen—even if only by one person.
And sometimes, one is enough.
She closed her eyes. The pain was still there. The silence too. But something—or someone—was quietly stitching it all back together.
That night, Fani fell asleep in peace. Not because everything was fixed.
But because someone had chosen to stay, when everyone else looked away.