EMPTY BRAIN

CHAPTER 2 

Pink wasn't like the other kids at Magnolia High. She was quiet, not in a shy way, but in a way that made people uncomfortable. Teachers would ask her questions, and Pink would stare back, her face blank, her eyes drifting to the window like she wasn't even in the room. Her classmates whispered about her behind her back: "She's weird. "Creepy." "Like, does she even have a brain?"

Pink never reacted. She didn't cry, didn't lash out, didn't defend herself. If their words bothered her, she never let it show. It was like there was a void inside her, one that swallowed everything whole. She didn't speak unless she had to, didn't laugh at jokes, didn't seem to carry the same weight of teenage angst as everyone else. 

But there was one person who refused to believe the whispers: Nova.

Nova had always been drawn to the strange. She was the type of girl who collected broken things cracked mirrors, torn books, fallen feathers and pieced them together like she was trying to fix the world. So when she saw Pink sitting alone in the cafeteria on the first day of sophomore year, picking at a sandwich she didn't seem interested in eating, Nova sat down across from her and said, "You look like you've got a story."

Pink had looked up, her expression unreadable. "I don't," she replied flatly, as if the very idea of having a story was foreign to her.

Nova didn't buy it. "Everyone has a story. You just don't want to share yours."

Pink shrugged, her eyes drifting back to her sandwich. "Maybe it's empty."

That answer hit Nova like a dare. She wasn't sure why, but she couldn't let it go. Maybe it was the way Pink said it, like she truly believed it. Like she had already accepted that there was nothing inside her worth discovering. 

Nova couldn't stand that. So she decided, right there, that she was going to get to the bottom of Pink's emptiness. Whether Pink liked it or not.

Pink never asked Nova to sit with her, but Nova did anyway. Day after day, week after week. She'd ramble about whatever came to mind her favorite movies, the book she was writing, how the science teacher smelled like old coffee beans. Pink never said much, but she didn't tell Nova to leave either. That was enough for Nova.

One day, Nova brought her sketchbook to lunch. She flipped it open to a page filled with chaotic lines and shapes, some of them bleeding into each other, others standing stark and alone. "What do you think?" she asked, sliding the book across the table.

Pink stared at the page for a long time. Nova thought she wasn't going to answer, but then Pink surprised her. "It's messy," she said. "But it's not empty."

Nova grinned. "Exactly. That's what makes it interesting."

Pink's lips twitched, almost like she was smiling. It wasn't much, but for Nova, it felt like a victory. For the first time, she thought maybe Pink wasn't as empty as she seemed. Maybe there was something behind that blank stare, something buried so deep even Pink didn't know it was there.

A few weeks later, Nova found the notebook. 

It was lying on Pink's desk during study hall, its cover plain and black, the edges frayed like it had been handled too many times. Nova wasn't usually one to snoop, but something about the notebook called to her. She glanced at Pink, who was staring out the window as usual, then reached out and flipped it open.

The pages were filled with words short, clipped sentences scrawled in shaky handwriting. 

 *What's wrong with me?* 

*Why can't I feel anything?* 

*It's like my brain is empty. Just a hollow space where thoughts should be.* 

 *Does anyone else feel like this? Or is it just me?* 

Nova's heart clenched. She closed the notebook and slid it back into place just as Pink turned her head. 

"What are you doing?" Pink asked, her voice sharp for the first time. 

"Nothing," Nova lied, her cheeks burning. 

Pink's eyes narrowed, but she didn't press. She turned back to the window, and Nova sat there in silence, her mind racing. 

That night, Nova couldn't stop thinking about the notebook. The words haunted her, especially the one sentence that seemed to echo in her mind: *It's like my brain is empty.* 

The next day, Nova skipped her usual chatter. Instead, she asked, "Pink, why do you think your brain is empty?" 

Pink froze. It was the first time Nova had seen her truly react to something. "You read it," she said, her voice cold. 

"I didn't mean to," Nova admitted. "I just" She hesitated, then leaned closer. "Pink, you're not empty. I don't know who told you that, but it's not true." 

Pink's jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me." 

"Then tell me," Nova said, her voice soft but firm. "Help me understand." 

Pink stared at her, her eyes glassy. For a moment, Nova thought she was going to shut down again. But then Pink whispered, "I don't feel anything, Nova. Not happiness, not sadness, not anger. Just… nothing." 

Nova's chest ached. "Maybe you're not supposed to feel everything all at once. Maybe it's okay to be messy. Like my drawings." 

Pink shook her head. "It's not the same." 

"Maybe not," Nova said. "But it doesn't mean you're empty."

Over time, Nova made it her mission to fill Pink's world with color. She dragged her to art galleries, to music festivals, to the park on sunny days. Pink resisted at first, but Nova was persistent. 

One day, as they sat by the lake watching the sunset, Pink said, "I don't get it. Why are you trying so hard?" 

Nova didn't hesitate. "Because I don't think you're empty. I think you're just… quiet. And I want to hear what your quiet sounds like." 

Pink didn't reply, but for the first time, she didn't look away. 

The breakthrough came on a rainy afternoon in Nova's room. They were sitting on the floor, surrounded by sketches and paints, when Pink picked up a pencil and started drawing. Nova watched in awe as Pink filled the page with sharp, jagged lines that somehow came together to form the outline of a girl sitting alone in a vast, empty room. 

"That's how it feels," Pink said, her voice trembling. "Like I'm trapped in here, and I don't know how to get out." 

Nova reached over and placed her hand on Pink's. "Then we'll find a way out together." 

Pink looked at her, and for the first time, her eyes weren't empty. They were full of something Nova couldn't quite name. 

By the end of the year, Pink wasn't "fixed." She still had her quiet moments, still struggled to understand the world and her place in it. But she wasn't alone anymore. Nova made sure of that. 

And Pink, in her own way, started to fill the emptiness. Not with noise or chaos, but with small, quiet things like the sharp scratch of a pencil on paper, the gentle hum of rain against the window, and the warmth of Nova's laughter. 

Her brain wasn't empty. It was just waiting to be heard.