Morning didn't wait for anyone in Catherina's house.
It arrived loud.
By the time she stepped into the kitchen, voices were already layered over each other, her younger brother arguing about something trivial, her sister laughing at her phone, her mother moving between the stove and the counter with quick, impatient motions.
Catherina paused briefly at the doorway, taking it in.
Then she stepped forward.
"Mummy, I told you I need that top today," her sister, Amelia, was saying, scrolling through her phone as though the conversation required no real attention. "You didn't wash it."
Her mother didn't look up. "Then wear something else."
"I don't want to wear something else."
"You should have said it earlier."
"I did!"
"You didn't."
"I did...."
"Amelia."
The name landed firmer this time.
A pause.
Then a softer sigh. "Just check the line outside. It might be dry."
Amelia rolled her eyes but didn't argue further. "Okay."
Catherina moved toward the sink quietly, reaching for the dishes left behind from earlier. Some still had traces of food on them, dried and stubborn.
She turned on the tap.
Water rushed out faster than expected, splashing lightly against the metal before settling into a steady stream.
Behind her, her younger brother, Eli, burst into laughter. "You should've seen his face!"
"Eat your food first," their mother said, though there was no real bite in her tone.
"I am eating!" he replied, grabbing another piece of bread with his bare hand.
"Use a plate," she added, but her voice had already softened.
Catherina scrubbed at a plate, her movements steady, controlled.
"Catherina," her mother called.
"Yes, Ma."
"Why is the floor still wet outside?"
Catherina blinked. "I mopped it before I came to the kitchen."
"And you left it like that?" her mother said, turning now. "So someone can slip?"
"I thought it would dry..."
"You thought?" Her mother's brows lifted slightly. "Must you think before doing simple things properly?"
"I'm sorry."
The words came quickly.
Too quickly.
Behind her, Amara reentered the kitchen, holding the top she had been looking for. "It was dry," she said, satisfied. "See?"
Her mother glanced at her and nodded. "Good."
That was all.
No mention of the earlier argument. No correction. No irritation.
Just… good.
Catherina's hand slowed slightly in the water.
Then resumed.
The walk to school was quieter than usual.
Not because there were fewer people, but because Catherina didn't try to notice them.
Her thoughts lingered elsewhere.
On a single word.
You thought.
She replayed it, not as a complaint, but as a conclusion.
As though thinking itself had been a mistake.
Ahead of her, Eli ran to catch up with a group of boys, his laughter rising easily into the morning air. One of them shoved him playfully, and he shoved back, their voices blending into something light, effortless.
Catherina watched for a second.
Then looked away.
School unfolded the same way it always did.
Lessons. Notes. Answers.
Correct.
But something about it felt sharper today.
During English class, the teacher called on another student, a girl sitting two rows ahead.
"That's a very expressive answer," she said, smiling. "You explained it beautifully."
A few students murmured in agreement.
Catherina glanced down at her own notebook.
Her answer was written there too.
Clear. Structured. Complete.
But not… expressive.
Not beautiful.
Just correct.
She pressed her pen slightly harder against the page, underlining a sentence that didn't need underlining.
Around her, the class moved on.
Like always.
Later, during another group activity, she found herself in the same position.
Assigned without being asked.
Expected without being acknowledged.
"Catherina, you'll organize it," someone said casually, already turning to another conversation.
She nodded.
"Okay."
Her voice blended into the background.
Again.
She arranged the work neatly, aligning the pages, structuring the points, making sure everything made sense. Around her, the others contributed in bursts, ideas thrown in between laughter, attention drifting in and out.
She filled in the gaps.
Silently.
When they presented, the teacher nodded. "Good work."
A pause.
"Try to be a bit more engaging next time."
Engaging.
The word settled somewhere unfamiliar.
Catherina nodded faintly.
"Yes, ma."
That evening, the house felt tighter.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The air carried a kind of restlessness that made everything feel closer, louder, harder to ignore.
"Daniel," their mother called from the sitting room. "Did you finish what I asked you to do?"
Her older brother looked up from where he sat, calm as always. "Yes."
"Good," she said. "I knew you would."
Simple.
Certain.
Catherina stood near the doorway, a folded cloth in her hands.
Her mother turned to her.
"And you...did you recheck your brother's assignment like I told you?"
Catherina hesitated. "I was about to..."
"You were about to?" her mother repeated. "So you haven't done it."
"I will do it now."
"Why do you always wait until I ask again?" Her mother's voice sharpened slightly. "Must everything be delayed with you?"
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't change anything."
Catherina lowered her gaze.
Behind her, Eli ran past, nearly knocking into a chair.
"Be careful!" their mother called, but there was a hint of laughter in her voice again.
"Sorry!" he shouted back, already gone.
The word sounded different coming from him.
Lighter.
Forgiven before it even landed.
Catherina tightened her grip on the cloth.
Her mother sighed, shaking her head. "Look at your brother, look at Daniel… everyone is moving forward, doing what they should."
A pause.
Then...
"And you… why are you always like this?"
The question wasn't loud.
But it landed harder than anything else.
Catherina's throat tightened slightly.
"I'm trying," she said, her voice barely steady.
Her mother exhaled, already turning away. "Then try better."
Later, she stood alone at the sink again.
The house had quieted, the noise settling into distant murmurs behind closed doors.
Water ran steadily from the tap, louder than usual in the stillness.
Catherina didn't move to stop it.
Her hands rested under the stream, the coolness spreading slowly across her skin.
She stared at the surface as it shifted and folded around her fingers.
Breaking.
Reforming.
Breaking again.
Her mother's words echoed, not loudly, but persistently.
Why are you always like this?
She swallowed.
Her reflection flickered faintly in the water, distorted, incomplete.
Not quite whole.
Her fingers moved slightly, disrupting it further.
The image disappeared.
Then returned.
Then disappeared again.
"If being myself…" she whispered, her voice almost lost beneath the sound of the running water.
She stopped.
The rest of the thought pressed against her chest, heavy, unfinished.
Her hand tightened slightly under the stream.
"…is never enough…"
The words felt unfamiliar.
Like something she wasn't supposed to say out loud.
She stared at the water a moment longer.
Then slowly, she turned off the tap.
The silence that followed felt different this time.
Not empty.
But waiting.
That night, she lay on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The cracks looked deeper somehow.
Or maybe she was just noticing them more.
Her chest felt tight again—not with emotion, but with something close to it.
Something trying to form.
Trying to surface.
But not quite there.
Her fingers curled slightly against the blanket.
A question slipped through, quiet but clear:
If being myself is never enough…
She exhaled slowly.
Then, almost without realizing it, she whispered:
"…then what am I supposed to be?"
The room didn't answer.
But somewhere in the distance—
a faint, steady dripping continued.