David sat by the window, staring out at the late autumn sky. The leaves, which had once been vibrant green, were now curling into themselves, shriveled by the same air that once gave them life. He watched as a single brown leaf detached from the tree, swirling through the air before landing softly on the ground below. He wondered what it would be like to fall like that—gracefully, without fear, accepting the end as just another part of the journey.
He rested his hand on the journal that lay open in front of him, the pages blank, waiting. He had tried writing something earlier, but his thoughts had felt too heavy, too messy, to put into words. The blank page felt like an accusation, a reminder that his life wasn’t moving forward. Instead, it was unraveling.
David often thought of himself as someone who was born in reverse. While most people seemed to grow into life—expanding, learning, feeling more and more with each passing year—he felt like he was shrinking. Life had become smaller for him, more constrained, the possibilities narrowing down with every doctor’s visit, every tired breath, every sleepless night. His world was becoming a series of limitations, and he could feel it in the way his body responded to even the smallest tasks.
Today was one of those days. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest, a familiar tightness that reminded him to slow down, to be careful, as though his body were warning him not to push too far.
He picked up his pen and wrote at the top of the page:
We are all just performers on a stage we didn’t build.
He paused, thinking about the words. It was something he had heard once, though he couldn’t remember where. Maybe it had been from one of his teachers or a quote from a book he had read long ago. But the thought stuck with him, especially now. Life felt like a performance—a script handed to him by fate. He hadn’t asked for the part, but there he was, playing along, trying to make sense of the role he’d been given.
He sighed and glanced out the window again. The sky was turning a dull gray, and a fine mist had begun to blur the edges of the landscape. It matched his mood.
That’s when he saw her.
Amelia was standing in the courtyard, her head down, her hands shoved into the pockets of her oversized coat. She moved slowly, her shoulders hunched, as though she were trying to disappear into the fabric. Her long black hair hung loose, falling in front of her face, hiding her expression. She stood there for a moment, as if debating whether or not to continue walking, then finally headed toward the building.
David watched her with mild curiosity. Amelia was someone he saw almost every day at school, yet no one ever really seemed to notice her. She was quiet, always sitting at the back of the classroom, her head buried in a book or staring out the window like she was in a world of her own. She never spoke unless called upon, and even then, her voice was so soft it was easy to miss. Most people had written her off as just another shy, awkward girl. But David had always been drawn to the quiet ones, the people who didn’t demand attention but seemed to carry entire worlds within them.
There was something about her that intrigued him. Maybe it was the way she seemed to drift through life, never fully present, or the way she avoided people’s gaze, as if she were afraid they might see too much if they looked too closely. He had noticed that she never smiled—not once in the entire year they had shared classes together. Even when others laughed or joked, her face remained impassive, distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.
David closed his journal and stood, moving slowly toward the classroom.He had always been observant, perhaps because he had spent so much time on the sidelines himself. Illness had a way of making you invisible, turning you into a passive observer of life rather than an active participant. But today, something about Amelia pulled at him. Maybe it was the way she stood so still in the courtyard, as though she were waiting for something, or maybe it was because he saw something of himself in her—a quiet loneliness that mirrored his own.
He made his way to the drama class, the one elective he had taken that allowed him to escape, if only for a little while. The others in the class were already gathered, laughing and talking loudly as they prepared for the day’s activities. As David entered, his gaze swept over the room, and there she was again—Amelia, sitting alone in the far corner, flipping through a worn-out copy of a script.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The drama teacher, Ms. Parker, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. "Alright, everyone, let’s get started! Today, we’ll be working on our scenes for the end-of-term showcase. Pair up with your assigned partners, and we’ll do a run-through."
David took a seat, his heart already beating a little faster than it should. The fatigue was catching up to him again, but he pushed it aside. Ms. Parker started calling out names, assigning partners for the scenes.
“David, you’ll be with Amelia.”
His stomach flipped, and he instinctively glanced in her direction. She hadn’t looked up. Her eyes were still glued to the script in front of her, her posture tense, as though the world around her barely registered. He stood and walked over to where she sat, his steps slow and deliberate. As he approached, she finally lifted her head, her hazel eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments before darting away.
“Hey,” David said, his voice calm but soft. “Looks like we’re partners.”
Amelia nodded, her gaze dropping back to the script in her lap. She didn’t respond, and for a moment, David wondered if she would say anything at all.
"Do you want to go over the scene?" he asked, taking a seat across from her.
There was a pause before she spoke, her voice quiet and uncertain. "Okay."
They opened their scripts, and David quickly scanned the lines. It was a simple scene—two characters meeting in a park, exchanging a few awkward pleasantries before the conversation grew deeper, more vulnerable. As they started reading, Amelia’s voice was soft, almost too soft to hear. She stumbled over a few words, and her expression was unreadable, her body stiff and uncomfortable. David watched her carefully, noticing how her hands trembled slightly as she held the script.
She was nervous. That much was obvious. But there was something more, something deeper beneath the surface—an anxiety that seemed to go beyond just stage fright. He could see it in the way her eyes flickered with uncertainty, how her breathing quickened when she couldn’t quite get the words right.
David leaned forward, his tone gentle. "It’s okay, you don’t have to rush. Let’s take it slow."
Amelia looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time, David saw something in her eyes that wasn’t fear. It was... curiosity, maybe even surprise. She nodded again, and this time, when she spoke her lines, her voice was a little steadier.
They worked through the scene, line by line, and slowly, David felt the walls between them start to lower, just a little. Amelia wasn’t perfect—her voice still wavered, and she hesitated more than once—but there was something raw and real about her performance, something that felt genuine. It wasn’t polished or refined, but it was... honest. And that was more than he had expected.
When they finished, there was a moment of silence between them. Amelia stared down at her script, her fingers tracing the edges of the pages. David waited, wondering if she would say anything, but she remained quiet, lost in her thoughts.
Finally, he spoke. "You were good."
Amelia’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise. "What?"
David smiled faintly. "You were good. Your delivery felt real. It’s a hard scene, but you made it work."
For a moment, Amelia didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, a faint blush crept into her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze again, mumbling, "Thanks."
David leaned back in his chair, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. There was something about this girl, something he couldn’t quite put into words yet. But he knew, in that moment, that he wanted to understand her better. He wanted to know why she never smiled, why she seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, and why she always kept her distance from everyone around her.
As the class continued, David found his thoughts drifting back to that single brown leaf he had watched fall from the tree earlier. Maybe he and Amelia were like that—two leaves, swirling through the air, trying to find their place before the inevitable.