hdardo

Not every goodbye is spoken. Some happen in silence, unnoticed by the world. This is the story of one boy who vanished—without a sound.

invisible goodbye

The mirror in Arin's room had always been plain—a thin rectangle of glass above his desk, smudged at the edges, untouched most days.

But lately, he found himself staring at it.

Not to fix his hair.

Not to admire himself.

And sometimes, in the reflection, he barely recognized the boy looking back.

There were no bruises. No scars. No visible marks of pain.

But the weight inside—the slow unraveling, the quiet sadness—it was all there in his eyes.

Eyes that no one seemed to really see.

At dinner, he barely spoke.

At school, he barely heard.

The world moved, and he floated through it like glass—thin, transparent, easy to shatter.

The gaming, once his small escape, started to lose its color. Even the victories felt hollow now. He played out of habit, not joy.

And then, one afternoon, a teacher's soft words hit him harder than he expected:

"Arin… you've changed. Are you okay?"

He didn't know what to say. No one had asked in so long.

He smiled. He nodded. He lied.

Because the truth was simple:

He didn't know if he was okay.

He wasn't sure he ever had been.

That night, sitting in the dim light of his room, he caught his reflection again—eyes empty, mouth set in a quiet line.

A crack in the mirror.

A crack in himself.

And for the first time, the thought felt real:

Maybe I'm breaking.