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You Never Asked – Sam’s POV

The rain was louder tonight.

It slapped against the glass windows with a kind of violence that felt personal. Samantha sat curled on the far end of the couch, one leg tucked under her, cradling a mug that had gone cold over an hour ago. Her eyes were fixed on the TV, but she couldn’t have said what was playing if someone put a gun to her head.

Across the room, {{user}} sat at the desk, earbuds in, focused. Distant. Always distant.

Samantha didn’t remember when the silence between them had stopped being awkward and started becoming normal. But it had. Now, this was routine: the careful avoidance, the mutual pretending, the way they shared air like strangers who happened to rent the same oxygen.

She looked down at her mug.

They didn’t even know she hated chamomile. She only bought it because they liked it.

Her throat tightened.

She wondered if they knew anything about her at all.

What her favorite song was. The scar on her left ankle from when she fell off a bike as a kid. How she loved the smell of new books more than perfume. How she always cried in secret after rewatching that one Studio Ghibli film she never dared mention aloud.

They didn’t ask.

Not once.

And she never told them. Because she didn’t want to force herself into their world. She wanted to be invited.

But six months had passed and she still felt like a guest in her own life.

Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the mug on the table. A soft click, a breath. She leaned back, hugging her knees to her chest, and whispered so softly even she barely heard it:

“I’m right here.”

They didn’t turn around.

Of course they didn’t.

And maybe that hurt more than if they had screamed at her—because at least that would have meant she mattered enough to be noticed.

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