The day outside had grown colder, the gray sky stretching endlessly over the town like a blanket of fog. David kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his steps slow as he made his way home. The conversation with Amelia lingered in his mind, replaying like a faint echo that refused to fade. He could still see her face, the surprise in her eyes when he’d complimented her, the blush that spread across her cheeks as she whispered, “Thanks.”
Something about her reaction left an ache in his chest—a feeling he wasn’t used to. There had been something vulnerable in her gaze, a tiny crack in the walls she kept around herself. David had felt it like a magnetic pull, as if he’d glimpsed something raw and hidden that no one else had ever seen. He knew what it was like to live behind walls. His illness had turned his life into a maze of barriers he couldn’t break down, a reality he couldn’t escape. To everyone else, he was the quiet kid with too many absences, the one who never joined after-school activities or laughed loudly in the halls.
But Amelia… Her silence felt different. She wore it like a shield, but there was an edge to it, a weight that went beyond mere shyness. He didn’t understand why, but he wanted to. He wanted to know what made her withdraw, what kept her guarded. Most of all, he wondered what it would take to make her smile—a real smile, not the polite, half-hearted one he’d seen in class.
As he rounded the corner onto his street, the familiar outline of his house came into view. It was modest and plain, with peeling paint on the shutters and an overgrown garden his mother never had time to tend. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn, and the house seemed to exhale the same weary silence he felt pressing on him.
He opened the door, the hinges creaking as he stepped inside. The emptiness greeted him like an old friend. In the kitchen, a note was taped to the fridge, written in his mother’s rushed handwriting:
"Working late. Left dinner in the fridge. Love you."
David’s fingers brushed over the words, his throat tightening. It wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. She was doing everything she could, working overtime at the hospital, trying to cover the medical bills and keep their lives as normal as possible. But he couldn’t help feeling the hollowness that crept in whenever he read those notes, each one a reminder of how much his illness had cost them both.
He tossed the note aside and pulled the container from the fridge, setting it in the microwave. The hum of the machine filled the silence as he leaned against the counter, letting his thoughts drift back to Amelia. There was something strange and compelling about her, something that resonated with him in a way he hadn’t expected. She felt like a mirror, reflecting pieces of himself he hadn’t wanted to face—loneliness, fragility, fear.
The microwave beeped, snapping him out of his thoughts. He took the container to the table and opened it, stirring the lukewarm pasta absently as his mind wandered back to drama class. He remembered the way Amelia’s hands had trembled, how her voice had faltered when she read her lines. She’d looked so uncertain, as if each word had to be coaxed out, every syllable a struggle. He recognized that feeling, the fear of being seen too clearly, of letting others glimpse what was hidden.
As he ate, his thoughts shifted to a conversation he’d overheard in the hallway after class. A few students had been talking about the end-of-term showcase, speculating on who might get the lead roles. He’d heard Amelia’s name mentioned, and it hadn’t surprised him. Despite her quiet nature, there was something compelling about her, something that drew people in. She had a presence that lingered, even if she didn’t try to stand out. He wondered if she wanted the role, if it mattered to her, or if she was simply going through the motions like he was, doing what was expected without truly believing in it.
Finishing his dinner, he pushed the empty container aside and took out his journal. The words he’d written earlier stared back at him:
"We are all just performers on a stage we didn’t build."
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He traced the words with his finger, feeling their weight. Picking up his pen, he began to write.
"Today, I saw her again.
Amelia. She never smiles. Not even when she’s nervous. Not even when she’s scared.
But I think I saw something else. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was both."
He paused, the pen hovering over the page as he struggled to find the right words. There was so much he wanted to say, things that felt tangled and fragile, like they would shatter if he tried to pull them apart. Finally, he wrote,
"I wonder what it would take to make her smile."
The words felt strange and intimate, like a confession he hadn’t intended to make. He closed the journal, letting his thoughts settle into silence. But even as he prepared for bed, Amelia’s face lingered in his mind, her quiet presence filling the empty spaces in his thoughts.
---
The next day, David’s eyes scanned the crowded halls, searching for Amelia as he made his way to class. She moved like a shadow, slipping through the masses without anyone seeming to notice her. It was as if she’d perfected the art of invisibility, blending into the background so seamlessly that no one remembered she was there. But David noticed her now. He couldn’t stop noticing her.
When they arrived in the drama room, David took his usual seat near the back, keeping his gaze on the door as the other students filed in. When Amelia finally entered, she looked the same as always—quiet, withdrawn, her long hair falling over her face. She took her usual spot in the far corner, away from the others, and opened her script, her fingers tracing the worn edges of the pages. David watched her for a moment, then stood and walked over to her.
“Hey,” he said softly, taking a seat beside her. “Do you want to practice our scene again?”
Amelia glanced up at him, her eyes flickering with a hint of hesitation. But after a brief pause, she nodded. “Okay.”
They opened their scripts and began to read, their voices low and steady as they worked through the lines. Today, something felt different. There was a quiet intensity between them, an unspoken understanding that neither acknowledged but both felt. As they reached the final lines of the scene, Amelia’s voice wavered, her hands trembling slightly. She hesitated, her eyes darting across the page as though searching for something she couldn’t find.
“Are you okay?” David asked, his tone gentle.
Amelia didn’t answer at first. She closed the script, her fingers gripping the edges tightly. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. “I don’t think I’m good at this.”
David frowned, leaning forward. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head, her hair falling in front of her face. “I don’t know how to… be someone else. Everyone else in this class, they make it look so easy. They can just… act. But I don’t know how to do that.”
David studied her, surprised by the admission. He’d always thought of Amelia as someone who kept her emotions carefully guarded, someone who didn’t let the world see her weaknesses. But now, sitting here with her, he realized how much she had been holding back, how much fear and doubt she hid behind her silence.
“You don’t have to be someone else,” David said softly. “That’s not what acting is. It’s about finding something real in the character. Something that feels like you.”
Amelia glanced at him, her brow furrowing. “But what if there’s nothing there? What if I don’t feel anything?”
David’s heart ached at the question. He understood that feeling, the fear that maybe, deep down, there was nothing inside worth showing. But he also knew that wasn’t true.
“There’s always something,” he said gently. “You just have to look for it.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their conversation settling between them. Then, slowly, Amelia nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”
David smiled, a small, genuine smile that softened his expression. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He’d seen something in Amelia today that he hadn’t seen before—a glimpse of vulnerability that made him want to keep looking, to keep finding out who she was beneath the quiet exterior.
As class continued, David found his thoughts drifting back to her, lingering on the memory of her voice, the way it had trembled with uncertainty. She was like a puzzle, each piece fitting together slowly, revealing a picture that was still unclear but growing sharper with every interaction. And he knew, deep down, that there was something important about her, something he needed to understand.
That night, as he lay in bed, David opened his journal and wrote:
"There’s something about her.
Something I can’t explain.
Maybe it’s because she’s like me, always hiding. Or maybe it’s because I see something in her that I wish I could see in myself.
But I think I’m starting to understand."
He paused, his pen hovering over the page for a moment before he added:
"I want to know what makes her smile."