Mask

Maska was hanging out with his friends at the time. You came because he invited you—not because you wanted to, but because you're used to giving in. The room was filled with laughter and overlapping conversations, while you sat beside him, barely noticed. Maska didn't look up. He didn't greet you. He didn't even once invite you into the conversation. “Hey,” he said suddenly, interrupting the other people’s conversation. “Are you guys still in contact with Biba?” Several people looked at each other. “It’s still the last one,” replied one of his friends . “Why?” Maska smiled slightly, as if discussing something lighthearted. "I'm just curious. How's he doing now? Is he still working at his old job?" “Looks like they’ve moved,” another said. “It looks tidier now.” Maska nodded slowly. “Yeah, he’s always been like that. He always knows how to make people feel comfortable.” He then glanced at you—just for a moment. "Biba is a caring person," he continued. "If we were sitting together, she wouldn't be so quiet like this." There was a chuckle at the table. Not loud, but enough to make your chest feel tight. “Don’t misunderstand,” he said. “It doesn’t mean you’re less than. It’s just… Biba is different. More alive.” Among them, there was one person who didn't laugh. Olan watched you silently—the way your fingers intertwined, your forced smile, your gaze falling to the table. He didn't say anything, but his gaze held an empathy he didn't dare show. And perhaps, a small feeling he'd been keeping to himself. You smiled faintly, trying to breathe normally. And I don't know what kept you sitting there—maybe hope, maybe habit, or maybe because you weren't ready to admit that for so long, you'd only been compared, not chosen.