Morning: The Ghost of Routine

The alarm clock buzzed at 6:00 a.m., its shrill tone slicing through the quiet of Chen's cramped apartment. He lay still for a moment, staring at the crack in the ceiling a jagged line that had grown longer since his mother's death. Her absence was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest every morning. She still left the faint scent of jasmine perfume clung to the curtains and to the threadbare sofa inside the apartment. At times, he would have sworn he heard her humming in the kitchen, that lilting tune she'd sing while chopping veggies. But when he stumbled out of bed, the room was always empty.

In the kitchen, Chen mechanically prepared breakfast: toast and a boiled egg, the same meal his mother used to make. The chair where she once sat remained untouched, a shrine to her memory. A framed photo of her smiling, vibrant, her head wrapped in a silk scarf during her final months watched him from the counter. "Finish your studies, Chen. Make me proud," she'd whispered in the hospital, her voice paper-thin. He hadn't cried since the funeral. There wasn't time.

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His father, who worked construction in Dubai, had sent a text that morning: "Tuition paid. Stay focused. Call me Sunday." The texts were always transactional. Chen wondered if his father still blamed himself for not being there when she took her last breath. He scrolled through their chat history dates, amounts, reminders. No "How are you?" No "I miss her too."

Flashback: The Hospital

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Six months earlier…...

The hospital room was sterile, cold, the air thick with antiseptic. Chen's mother lay propped up on pillows, her skin translucent under the fluorescent lights. Machines beeped rhythmically, a cruel counterpoint to her labored breathing. She reached for his hand, her grip weaker than he remembered.

"You'll take care of your father, won't you?" she murmured, her voice fraying at the edges. "He'll forget to eat… work himself to death…"

Chen nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I will."

She smiled, her eyes glassy with morphine. "Don't waste your life grieving, bǎobèi. Live. Promise me."

He promised. But now, standing in the silent apartment, he couldn't remember how to keep that vow.

School: The Mask of Normalcy

Lockers slammed and laughter echoed through the halls of Greenvale Senior High. Chen drifted through them like a ghost, his backpack full of textbooks and unread condolence cards. Advanced Calculus was like drowning: numbers swimming together on the page, forming instead the vision of his mother's frail hand around his. "Chen."

Ms. Alina's voice snapped him back. The young English teacher stood at his desk, her brow furrowed. Her classroom was an oasis of warm light and bookshelves, a stark contrast to the sterile halls. "Your last essay was…distracted," she said gently. "Is everything okay?"

Chen stiffened. "I'm fine."

She paused, then pushed a blank journal across his desk. It was bound in soft brown leather, the pages crisp and unlined. "Write. Not for grades. For yourself."

He looked at it, fighting the impulse to throw it across the room. What's the point? he thought. Words couldn't stitch his life back together.

Lunch: Cracks in the Armor

It was a minefield in the cafeteria. Chen was sitting alone at a corner table, peeling at rice and soy-glazed chicken, until a tray clattered beside him.

"Mind if I join?" It was Jia, a girl from his literature class. Her hair was dyed cotton-candy pink, and she wore a sweater three sizes too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Chen shrugged, but she sat anyway. "You're Chen, right? You always look like you're solving the world's problems over here."

He snorted. "Not succeeding."

Jia unwrapped a bento box—meticulously arranged sushi, a far cry from the soggy meal Chen had eaten. "My dad's a chef. Overcompensating," she said, rolling her eyes. "He thinks fancy food fixes.well, everything."

Chen looked at her. "Does it?"

"Nope." She popped a piece of salmon into her mouth. "But it's something."

For the first time in months, Chen felt the faintest flicker of connection.

Miguel's Intervention

After school, Chen stood by his locker, shoving books into his bag. A booming voice called out behind him.

"Bro! You've been ghosting me!"

Miguel, his childhood friend, slung an arm over Chen's shoulders. Once inseparable, they'd drifted apart after the funeral. Miguel's grin was infectious, his energy relentless. "Come to the diner. My treat. We need to talk."

Chen shook his head. "Not today."

Miguel's smile retreated. "See, I get it. You can't just disappear." His voice went low. "I'm scared for you, man."

Chen's chest tightened. "I am fine."

"Bullshit," Miguel said and grabbed his arm. "You're drowning. Let me help."

Chen yanked himself free. "You don't know anything!"

The hall became silent. Miguel stepped back. Hurt flicked in his eyes. "Yeah. Maybe I don't.

The Track Field: A Glimpse of Escape

After this intense exchange with Miguel, Chen also stalked out of the school building. His chest heaving as if saying nothing, he trudged out. The late sun cast long shadows across the track field, where a group of students was practicing sprints. Luna, the star athlete of the school, ran with a lightness that seemed almost impossible and belonged to a different genre altogether. Her braid swung with every run, and a burst of laughter echoed across the field like a melody.

Chen stopped and looked at her. He had never understood how people could take pleasure in running. It was to him a form of punishment, a reminder of how fast life could slide away. But there was something to the way Luna ran, as if she is only chasing something just out of reach, that made him interested.

"Hey, Chen!" Luna called, spotting him. She jogged over, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming in short bursts. "You should join us. We're short on runners for the upcoming meet."

Chen shook his head. "I'm not exactly the athletic type."

Luna tilted her head, studying him. "You don't have to be. Running's not about being the best. It's about… letting go. Trust me, it helps."

She kept repeating as she walked away: Let go. He did not even know how to do that.

Mr. Tan's Office: A Safe Space

Later that afternoon, Chen stood outside Mr. Tan's office. That morning, the school counselor had slipped a note into his locker: "If you need to talk, my door is always open." Chen had crumpled it and thrown it into the trash, but standing there now in the deserted hall, he felt a sudden tugging sensation.

He tapped gently.

"Come in," said Mr. Tan's rich voice.

The room was cozy; books filled its shelves and the desk boasted of a small potted plant. Mr. Tan looked up at his computer and pushed up the bridge of his glasses, reading over them as he worked. "Chen. Nice you came to see me."

Chen fidgeted with sitting down across the desk, settling into the chair. "I don't even know why I am here.".

Mr. Tan settled back in his chair, his face agamous but inquisitive. "Sometimes, we don't need a reason. Sometimes, we just need to be heard."

Chen's throat constricted. He glanced at the floor, his fists clenched. "I don't know how… to move on. Everyone keeps telling me to 'stay strong' or 'keep going,' but it's like I'm stuck. Like I'm just… waiting for something to change.".

Mr. Tan nodded. "Grief has no timeline, Chen. It's not something you can rush or ignore. But it's also not something you have to face alone."

Chen's eyes burned, but he blinked back the tears. "I don't want to be a burden."

"You're not," said Mr. Tan firmly. "Asking for help isn't weakness. It's courage."

The words reached deep inside Chen. For the first time in months, he felt a flicker of hope small, fragile, but there.

Evening: The Empty Apartment

By the time Chen returned home, the apartment was darkened. He switched on the light, which promptly blinded him. The silence was deafening, except for the hum of the refrigerator.

He warmed leftovers from the previous night and sat at the little dining table. The empty chair across from him reminded him forcefully of his mother's absence. He pulled out the journal that Ms. Alina had given him, feeling the softness of the leather cover as his fingers ran across it.

Write. Not for grades. For yourself.

He opened the journal and stared at the blank page. The words would not come, but then he began writing-about the hospital, about his mother's smile, about the guilt that gnawed at him day in and day out. With each line, he was feeling lighter, as if the weight on his chest was being shifted slowly.

A Call from Dubai

Later that afternoon, Chen's phone vibrated. Video call from his father. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for tension.

"Chen," the voice was gritty, the eyes deep etched with exhaustion lines. "School?"

"Great," Chen stated nonchalantly.

There is a long awkward silence of many unspoken things. Then sighs his dad. "So sorry I am not there when you need, for her when she needs

Chen's breath caught. This was the first time his father said he had been missing him. "It's not your fault," he whispered.

His father's eyes filled with tears. "I miss her too, you know."

The confession was like a crack in the dam. For the first time, Chen saw his father, not a distant figure, but a man carrying his load of grief.

A New Beginning

He sat there, quietly, in the quiet apartment, journal open on his lap. He thought of Jia's kind gesture, about Miguel's concern, Luna's invitation, and Mr. Tan's life lessons. For the first time in months, he was not entirely alone.

He picked up the journal and began writing again, this time about the people who had reached out to him, about small moments of connection that began lighting his way.

The chapter ended with Chen standing at the window, looking out into the city lights. Somewhere out there, his mother's memory lived on not just in his grief but in the strength he was slowly finding to move forward.