Nelly sat in her small room, scrolling through i********: like it was some kind of self-inflicted torture. Which, let's be honest, is what social media is at midnight when you're feeling sorry for yourself.
Picture after picture of people she didn't know: holding hands, kissing in front of sunsets, laughing at inside jokes she'd never understand. Lives full of color and love and all the things that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.
Everyone except her.
"Maybe I'm the problem," she whispered to her reflection in the black mirror of her phone screen.
Her reflection didn't disagree, which felt about right.
Nelly had never been loved. Not really. Not the way those i********: couples were loved, with the grand gestures and the soft smiles and the you're my person energy. Boys noticed her, sure. She wasn't invisible. But she was... forgettable.
She was the girl guys talked to when they were bored. The backup plan. The "you're really cool, but—" girl. The friend zone wasn't just her zip code; it was her permanent address.
Senior year, Marcus Chen had asked her to prom. She'd been so excited she'd bought a dress the same day—midnight blue, on sale at Target, but it made her feel pretty. Then, two weeks before prom, Marcus texted: "Hey, so Sarah said yes when I asked her. Hope you understand. We're still cool though, right?"
They were not cool.
Junior year, David Mitchell had kissed her at Jenny Rodriguez's party. She'd thought it meant something. The next Monday at school, he'd pretended it never happened. When she confronted him, he'd shrugged and said, "We were drunk. It didn't mean anything."
She hadn't been drunk. Apparently, she'd been delusional.
And then there was Tyler. Sweet, perfect Tyler from sophomore year who wrote her notes in class and walked her home and made her think maybe, finally, someone saw her. Until she overheard him telling his friends, "Nelly's cool and all, but she's not really my type. Too... plain, you know?"
Plain. That word had lived rent-free in her head ever since.
Too plain. Too boring. Too forgettable. Too not enough.
The worst part? She couldn't even blame them. When she looked in the mirror, she saw exactly what they saw: a girl with brown hair that wouldn't hold a curl, eyes that were neither striking nor memorable, a smile that was nice enough but not breathtaking. She was the human equivalent of beige. Inoffensive. Unremarkable. There.
"You're being dramatic," her best friend Mia had told her once. "You're pretty. You're smart. You're funny. The right guy just hasn't found you yet."
But Nelly was tired of waiting to be found. She was tired of being the supporting character in everyone else's love story. She was tired of watching couples walk hand-in-hand while she walked alone.
Mostly, she was tired of feeling like there was something fundamentally broken inside her that made her unlovable.
The acceptance letter had arrived three months ago. Full scholarship to State University, four hours away. A chance to start over. New city, new people, new Nelly—one who wouldn't spend Friday nights alone watching Netflix and pretending she was fine with it.
Her mom had cried happy tears. "My baby's going to college! I'm so proud of you!"
Nelly had smiled and hugged her back, but inside, she'd felt hollow. Because what was the point of going somewhere new when you'd just be the same forgettable girl in a different setting?
But she'd accepted anyway. Because staying in this town, watching everyone else move forward while she stayed stuck, felt worse than the fear of starting over.
She left in three days. Three days until she could escape this place and maybe, possibly, hopefully become someone worth remembering.
Tonight though, sitting in her room surrounded by half-packed boxes, Nelly felt the loneliness wrap around her like a second skin. It was suffocating. The walls felt too close. Her thoughts too loud. She needed air.
She grabbed her umbrella—the yellow one with ducks on it that her mom bought her as a joke—and walked out into the rain.
The streets were quiet. Most people had the good sense to stay inside when it was raining at midnight on a Tuesday. But Nelly had never been accused of having good sense.
She walked past the closed shops and empty bus stops, letting the rain wash over her. The umbrella remained closed in her hand because honestly, what was the point? She was already soaked in misery; a little water wouldn't make a difference.
Her phone buzzed. Mia.
"Where are you? Your location says you're downtown. It's midnight, Nel. That's serial killer hours."
Nelly typed back: "Needed air. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Come over. We can watch trashy reality TV and eat ice cream."
"Rain check? Pun intended."
"Nel..."
"I promise I'm okay. Just thinking. I'll text you when I'm home."
She put her phone on silent before Mia could argue. Sweet, wonderful Mia, who'd been her best friend since third grade when they'd both been picked last for dodgeball. Mia had found love last year—Connor, the sweet lacrosse player who looked at her like she hung the moon. They were doing long distance while Mia went to school across the country. It was working because of course it was. Mia deserved happiness.
Nelly was happy for her. Truly. But she'd be lying if she said it didn't hurt watching her best friend get the happy ending Nelly had always wanted.
She found herself standing under a flickering streetlamp, trying to open her stupid duck umbrella because the rain had gotten heavier and even metaphorical statements have limits.
The umbrella, sensing her emotional distress, decided to be difficult.
"Oh, come on," Nelly muttered, fighting with the mechanism. "Work with me here."
The umbrella refused.
"I swear to God, if you don't—"
"You're holding it wrong."
Nelly jumped, nearly dropping the umbrella. She looked up to find a guy standing there—soaked through, hoodie dripping, looking like he'd just crawled out of a river. Or a particularly tragic music video.
"Excuse me?" she said, more defensively than intended.
"The umbrella," he said, stepping closer. His voice was tired, flat. "You're forcing it. Here."
Before she could protest—because who was this random drowned rat giving her umbrella advice?—he took it gently from her hands, clicked it open with one smooth motion, and handed it back.
Show-off.
"Thanks," Nelly muttered, slightly embarrassed.
"No problem," he said, already turning to leave.
There was something in the way he moved—slow, defeated, like every step took effort—that made Nelly's chest tighten. She recognized that walk. She'd walked it herself plenty of times.
"Hey," she called after him. "You look like hell."
He let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Feel like it too."
And there it was—that tone. The one that said I'm barely holding it together and please don't ask me if I'm okay because I'll shatter.
Something in Nelly's expression must have softened because he didn't immediately walk away.
"Rough night?" she asked.
"The roughest," he said quietly, meeting her eyes for the first time.
They were dark. Empty. Haunted by something recent and painful.
Nelly made a decision she'd probably regret. "Come on," she said, nodding toward the café across the street—the only place still open at this ungodly hour. "Coffee. My treat."
He looked at her like she'd just suggested they rob a bank. "I don't—"
"Look, you can either stand in the rain looking like a tragic protagonist, or you can sit in a warm café looking like a tragic protagonist with coffee. Your choice."
For a moment, she thought he'd refuse. Then, something in his face shifted—not quite a smile, but close enough.
"Alright," he said. "But I'm buying my own coffee. I have standards."
"Wow, rude."
"You called me tragic first."
"Fair point."
They crossed the street together, two strangers united by the universal language of looking absolutely miserable at midnight in the rain.
Nelly had no idea that this random act of caffeine-based kindness would change everything.
Neither did Snow.
Funny how fate works like that—arriving when you least expect it, usually when you're soaking wet and emotionally compromised, opening a stupid umbrella wrong under a flickering streetlamp.
Aksara