The 6th HUPE in Storyland competition Ranking

Lena learned early that beauty could be a currency, and like all currencies, it came with a price. She was sixteen the first time someone told her she was wasted potential. They said it smiling, as if it were a compliment. She didn’t know what to do with that phrase then, but it followed her like smoke, curling around her thoughts long after the voice had faded. By nineteen, she understood exactly what they meant. Lena had the kind of face people noticed before they even knew her name. Soft blue eyes that looked like they were always on the edge of saying something, a mouth that curved naturally into a half-smile even when she didn’t feel like smiling. Her body fit neatly with curves in all the right places. She didn’t choose it. She just woke up one day and realized the world had decided who she was for her. People liked Lena immediately. Loved her, even. Or that’s just what they'd tell her in the face. She knew they all talked behind her back, and at that point Lena couldn't care less. “You’re gorgeous.” they’d say, leaning too close at parties, their breath heavy with alcohol. “You could be anything.” teachers said, never asking what she wanted. “You don’t need to think so much,” friends laughed. “You’re pretty. You can have any guy you want.” They weren't wrong, she could, if she looked at a guy long enough eventually, they all caved. Their gazes followed her everywhere she went. Always grinning if their eyes met. Lena liked the attention at first. But eventually that started to suffocate her too. Her days were filled with empty promises, sex, and a wish someone would ask her how she's feeling. No one ever asked her how she slept. Or why her hands shook in the morning. Or why she flinched when the room got too loud. Smoking started as a joke. A cigarette stolen from a friend outside a club, laughter dissolving into coughs. She liked the burn. Liked how it gave her something to focus on that wasn’t the constant buzzing in her head. Soon it wasn’t funny anymore. Soon it was ritual. Wake up. Light up. Pretend the day hadn’t already exhausted her. Drinking followed easily. Alcohol softened the edges of her thoughts, blurred the parts of herself she didn’t know how to explain. When she drank, people laughed more. When she drank, she was “fun.” When she drank, no one noticed how quiet she got when the music stopped. Her apartment always smelled faintly of smoke and something stale. Empty bottles lined the trash like trophies she didn’t remember earning. She told herself she could stop anytime. She told herself a lot of things. People came in and out of her life like guests at a party she never agreed to host. Men especially. They wanted her arm on theirs, her face in their photos, her body in their beds. They didn’t want her sadness. They didn’t want her piece of mind. When she tried to talk about it, they’d interrupt. “You’re overthinking.” “You’re fine.” “Don’t be so dramatic.” Eventually, she learned not to talk at all. Lena began to feel like she existed slightly outside her own body, watching herself move through rooms, smile on cue, drink when expected. She was performing a version of herself that everyone else seemed to enjoy more than the real one. The real one stayed up late, smoking on the fire escape, staring at the city lights like they might spell out answers if she stared long enough. The real one felt hollow. Like something important had been removed without her noticing. One October night when the voices wouldn't simmer down, she went out for a walk. She hadn’t meant to. That was the point. She was cutting through a small park most people ignored when she noticed a narrow break in the bushes. Inside, half-hidden from the path, there was a bench so tucked away, it felt forgotten. Vincent was already sitting there. He looked up when she stopped—not assessing, not interested in taking anything. Just acknowledging her existence. He was about ten years older than her. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind earned slowly. Nothing about him tried to impress. She sat beside him without asking. It felt permitted. Like the bench allowed it. “What do you do?” he finally asked. She paused. “I exist.” “That’s harder than people think.” He said through half a smile. After that they talked for a while, the conversation not really going anywhere. They talked about simple things like high school days and day to day life. About all the little things they enjoyed doing. She mostly talked about her encounter at parties, and he talked about work. Lena didn’t really get what he was saying, and she didn’t care. All she thought was it’s nice having someone she doesn’t need to be all smiles around. They didn’t exchange numbers. Didn’t make plans. And yet, she saw him again the next day. And the day after that. Always by accident. Always on the bench. Sometimes he was already there. Sometimes she was. Sometimes they sat in silence just existing side by side like the world couldn’t reach them. Vincent never stared at her. Sometimes he forgot to look at her at all, too focused on her words. When he did look at her, Lena was still thoughtful, the more he spoke, the less she believed him. Being hurt and betrayed countless times she questioned his every move. Each time she looked into his eyes, Lena couldn't detect any signs of lust. His eyes were pure. Looking at her like a droplet of water in his palm. She didn't really know how to act around him. The guy who barely talked to girls, and the girl got unwanted attention from countless guys. They both came from totally different pints of view, from how they were raised to what they wanted to achieve in life. When she mentioned smoking, he didn’t lecture. When she admitted she drank too much, he didn’t recoil. “You don’t owe anyone perfection,” he said once. Something in her shifted. She began smoking less. Drinking less. Wanting to remember their conversations. Wanting to be sober enough to feel real. She told him things she’d never said aloud, about being seen constantly but never known, about feeling like she was disappearing inside herself. He listened like it mattered. Like she mattered. One evening, as dusk filtered through the leaves, she reached for his hand. He held it gently, like it was fragile. They stayed like that for hours. “Lena.” he finally broke the silence, “You deserve the world, and I am not the one who can give it to you.” She didn't even get a chance to speak before he pulled her into a tight embrace. Tighter than it should've been. Then. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just quietly, like he’d never been there at all, he walked away. Days passed in a daze for Lena. At first, she kept going back, sitting where he’d sat, noticing the indent in the wood, the cigarette burn on the edge. Then one day, she didn’t go at all. The spiral didn’t happen all at once. Bars welcomed her easily. Compliments returned. Alcohol flowed. But nothing softened the ache anymore, it sharpened it. She saw him everywhere. In the creased spines of old books. In half-finished cups of coffee left to long on the tables. In quiet men who looked up politely and then looked away. She’d hear his voice in passing thoughts. See his posture in strangers on buses. Sometimes she’d turn, certain she’d found him, only to be wrong. The bench haunted her most. She avoided the park, but the city kept offering substitutes: hidden stairwells, narrow alleys, places that felt like they might hold something if she stayed long enough. Nothing did. Her friends said she was being dramatic. Men said she was interesting now, in a way that made her skin crawl. No one noticed her hands shaking again. No one noticed how her eyes dulled. She thought of Vincent. Of the way he’d believed she was worth more than the roles people cast her in. Of how he’d left because he couldn’t believe someone like her could choose him. The irony hurt almost as much as the loss. She didn’t know how the story ended. She didn’t know if she’d get better. She didn’t know if she’d ever stop feeling like something essential had been taken from her. One night, drunk and exhausted, she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Mascara smeared, face pale, eyes vacant. “Who are you?” she asked. The girl didn’t answer. As dawn slipped through the smoke-filled room, Lena thought of the bench—not as a place she’d lost, but as proof that once, briefly, she’d been unseen in the best way. For the first time, she missed herself. And beneath the ash, the noise, the ache, a quiet thought stirred, fragile, uncertain, but alive. Maybe she wasn’t gone yet.

Lena learned early that beauty could be a currency, and like all currencies, it came with a price. She was sixteen the first time someone told her she was wasted potential. They said it smiling, as if it were a compliment. She didn’t know what to do with that phrase then, but it followed her like smoke, curling around her thoughts long after the voice had faded. By nineteen, she understood exactly what they meant. Lena had the kind of face people noticed before they even knew her name. Soft blue eyes that looked like they were always on the edge of saying something, a mouth that curved naturally into a half-smile even when she didn’t feel like smiling. Her body fit neatly with curves in all the right places. She didn’t choose it. She just woke up one day and realized the world had decided who she was for her. People liked Lena immediately. Loved her, even. Or that’s just what they'd tell her in the face. She knew they all talked behind her back, and at that point Lena couldn't care less. “You’re gorgeous.” they’d say, leaning too close at parties, their breath heavy with alcohol. “You could be anything.” teachers said, never asking what she wanted. “You don’t need to think so much,” friends laughed. “You’re pretty. You can have any guy you want.” They weren't wrong, she could, if she looked at a guy long enough eventually, they all caved. Their gazes followed her everywhere she went. Always grinning if their eyes met. Lena liked the attention at first. But eventually that started to suffocate her too. Her days were filled with empty promises, sex, and a wish someone would ask her how she's feeling. No one ever asked her how she slept. Or why her hands shook in the morning. Or why she flinched when the room got too loud. Smoking started as a joke. A cigarette stolen from a friend outside a club, laughter dissolving into coughs. She liked the burn. Liked how it gave her something to focus on that wasn’t the constant buzzing in her head. Soon it wasn’t funny anymore. Soon it was ritual. Wake up. Light up. Pretend the day hadn’t already exhausted her. Drinking followed easily. Alcohol softened the edges of her thoughts, blurred the parts of herself she didn’t know how to explain. When she drank, people laughed more. When she drank, she was “fun.” When she drank, no one noticed how quiet she got when the music stopped. Her apartment always smelled faintly of smoke and something stale. Empty bottles lined the trash like trophies she didn’t remember earning. She told herself she could stop anytime. She told herself a lot of things. People came in and out of her life like guests at a party she never agreed to host. Men especially. They wanted her arm on theirs, her face in their photos, her body in their beds. They didn’t want her sadness. They didn’t want her piece of mind. When she tried to talk about it, they’d interrupt. “You’re overthinking.” “You’re fine.” “Don’t be so dramatic.” Eventually, she learned not to talk at all. Lena began to feel like she existed slightly outside her own body, watching herself move through rooms, smile on cue, drink when expected. She was performing a version of herself that everyone else seemed to enjoy more than the real one. The real one stayed up late, smoking on the fire escape, staring at the city lights like they might spell out answers if she stared long enough. The real one felt hollow. Like something important had been removed without her noticing. One October night when the voices wouldn't simmer down, she went out for a walk. She hadn’t meant to. That was the point. She was cutting through a small park most people ignored when she noticed a narrow break in the bushes. Inside, half-hidden from the path, there was a bench so tucked away, it felt forgotten. Vincent was already sitting there. He looked up when she stopped—not assessing, not interested in taking anything. Just acknowledging her existence. He was about ten years older than her. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind earned slowly. Nothing about him tried to impress. She sat beside him without asking. It felt permitted. Like the bench allowed it. “What do you do?” he finally asked. She paused. “I exist.” “That’s harder than people think.” He said through half a smile. After that they talked for a while, the conversation not really going anywhere. They talked about simple things like high school days and day to day life. About all the little things they enjoyed doing. She mostly talked about her encounter at parties, and he talked about work. Lena didn’t really get what he was saying, and she didn’t care. All she thought was it’s nice having someone she doesn’t need to be all smiles around. They didn’t exchange numbers. Didn’t make plans. And yet, she saw him again the next day. And the day after that. Always by accident. Always on the bench. Sometimes he was already there. Sometimes she was. Sometimes they sat in silence just existing side by side like the world couldn’t reach them. Vincent never stared at her. Sometimes he forgot to look at her at all, too focused on her words. When he did look at her, Lena was still thoughtful, the more he spoke, the less she believed him. Being hurt and betrayed countless times she questioned his every move. Each time she looked into his eyes, Lena couldn't detect any signs of lust. His eyes were pure. Looking at her like a droplet of water in his palm. She didn't really know how to act around him. The guy who barely talked to girls, and the girl got unwanted attention from countless guys. They both came from totally different pints of view, from how they were raised to what they wanted to achieve in life. When she mentioned smoking, he didn’t lecture. When she admitted she drank too much, he didn’t recoil. “You don’t owe anyone perfection,” he said once. Something in her shifted. She began smoking less. Drinking less. Wanting to remember their conversations. Wanting to be sober enough to feel real. She told him things she’d never said aloud, about being seen constantly but never known, about feeling like she was disappearing inside herself. He listened like it mattered. Like she mattered. One evening, as dusk filtered through the leaves, she reached for his hand. He held it gently, like it was fragile. They stayed like that for hours. “Lena.” he finally broke the silence, “You deserve the world, and I am not the one who can give it to you.” She didn't even get a chance to speak before he pulled her into a tight embrace. Tighter than it should've been. Then. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just quietly, like he’d never been there at all, he walked away. Days passed in a daze for Lena. At first, she kept going back, sitting where he’d sat, noticing the indent in the wood, the cigarette burn on the edge. Then one day, she didn’t go at all. The spiral didn’t happen all at once. Bars welcomed her easily. Compliments returned. Alcohol flowed. But nothing softened the ache anymore, it sharpened it. She saw him everywhere. In the creased spines of old books. In half-finished cups of coffee left to long on the tables. In quiet men who looked up politely and then looked away. She’d hear his voice in passing thoughts. See his posture in strangers on buses. Sometimes she’d turn, certain she’d found him, only to be wrong. The bench haunted her most. She avoided the park, but the city kept offering substitutes: hidden stairwells, narrow alleys, places that felt like they might hold something if she stayed long enough. Nothing did. Her friends said she was being dramatic. Men said she was interesting now, in a way that made her skin crawl. No one noticed her hands shaking again. No one noticed how her eyes dulled. She thought of Vincent. Of the way he’d believed she was worth more than the roles people cast her in. Of how he’d left because he couldn’t believe someone like her could choose him. The irony hurt almost as much as the loss. She didn’t know how the story ended. She didn’t know if she’d get better. She didn’t know if she’d ever stop feeling like something essential had been taken from her. One night, drunk and exhausted, she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Mascara smeared, face pale, eyes vacant. “Who are you?” she asked. The girl didn’t answer. As dawn slipped through the smoke-filled room, Lena thought of the bench—not as a place she’d lost, but as proof that once, briefly, she’d been unseen in the best way. For the first time, she missed herself. And beneath the ash, the noise, the ache, a quiet thought stirred, fragile, uncertain, but alive. Maybe she wasn’t gone yet.