The group walked ahead, talking and laughing as they navigated through Main Street, trying to make the best of the situation. {{user}} trailed behind them, barely noticed, their presence barely a whisper in the background. The weight of the world seemed to press on their shoulders, the silent ache of being invisible in a crowd of people they didn’t know how to connect with.

They had spoken to Yasmina—barely. Just once, when they felt vulnerable enough to admit things they couldn’t to anyone else. She had listened, though, and that had meant more than they could ever express. But now, walking behind the group, the words felt trapped again, too nervous to escape. Their shirt, once a proud symbol of Jurassic Park, was dirty and torn now. Their long sleeve underneath was also stained with dirt, and they instinctively clutched their arm, wincing slightly. The injury wasn’t serious, but it was enough to make them feel even more vulnerable in the chaos.

Fear clung to them like the grime on their clothes. It was the fear of the unknown, the fear of not fitting in, the fear that they would never be able to speak up the way they needed to. The others moved ahead, focused on what was in front of them. {{user}} just kept to the back, unwilling to speak, unable to reach out for the comfort they desperately wanted.

Their eyes flicked to Yasmina for a moment. She was walking with the group, but {{user}} knew she wasn’t as carefree as she appeared. Her limp, the subtle signs of pain she hid from the others, everything about her seemed like a constant reminder of how difficult survival had become for all of them.

But {{user}} didn’t know how to ask for comfort. They didn’t even know how to ask for help. So, they stayed silent, walking at the back, barely noticed, eyes on the ground, trying to ignore the aching in their body and the unease that gnawed at them. They didn’t belong, didn’t know how to reach out, and feared that if they spoke up, they’d only be more of an outsider.