Love in Overdrive

Prologue

Ivy sat quietly in the corner of the dimly lit room, her knees drawn to her chest, a battered sketchbook resting on her lap. The faint smell of dampness hung in the air, mixing with the scent of cheap soap that never seemed to wash away the memories of the orphanage. The walls, peeling with age, were painted a dull, lifeless beige, and the only light came from a single flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. It cast a warm, yellow glow that barely reached the shadows lurking in the corners, where secrets and fears often dwelled.

Ivy would sometimes sit at the edge of the playground, her small hands clutching a pencil and a sheet of paper. She’d draw a family, with warm smiles and open arms. But every time she looked up, all she saw was a world that didn’t notice her.

Around her, the other children chattered and played, their laughter echoing off the bare walls like the sounds of distant thunder, but Ivy felt as if she were encased in glass, separate from the chaos that surrounded her. She had grown adept at fading into the background, a skill perfected over the years. When she was younger, she had tried to fit in, to be seen, but time had taught her that visibility often brought only pain. The other children, fueled by their own hurt and abandonment, could be cruel. They pushed her aside when they played games, mocked her when she stumbled over words, and fought over the last scraps of food as if it were a treasure. In the orphanage, love was a rare commodity, and Ivy had long since accepted that she was unworthy of it.

But amidst the bullying and the neglect, there was a flicker of kindness that had once broken through the shadows of her world. It came in the form of a timid boy with soft brown eyes and a gentle smile. He sat beside her on the worn, splintered bench one rainy afternoon, sharing his meagre lunch with her—a half-eaten sandwich and a single apple. The rain pattered against the window, creating a symphony of soft sounds that wrapped around them like a comforting blanket. He never asked for anything in return. He just offered her a piece of his lunch as if it were a precious gift. It was an act of kindness so simple, yet it stirred something deep within Ivy, a feeling she thought she might have forgotten.

They exchanged laughter and stories, their words a secret language that only they understood. She would sketch little drawings of him in her book—Whisper, she called him, for that was the name everyone had given him. Ivy had always thought it fitting; he was the only one who spoke to her in a soft, calming tone, as if he understood the delicate fabric of her emotions. Whenever he smiled at her, it felt like the clouds had parted to let the sun shine through, even if only for a moment.

But that light was snuffed out on her tenth birthday, a day that was supposed to be filled with joy and celebration. Instead, it became a memory stained with sorrow. Ivy remembered the whispers of the orphanage growing louder, the tension in the air thick and suffocating. She sat at the far end of the dining hall, watching as the staff handed out small, wrapped gifts to the other children. Ivy had never cared much for presents; the real gift for her was the companionship she found with Whisper.

As the staff called his name, Ivy's heart sank. She watched in disbelief as his eyes lit up with excitement, his laughter ringing like music, only to be followed by a deeper, more painful silence as his biological parents arrived to take him away. They were strangers to her, but they wore warmth and love like a cloak, and Ivy felt exposed and vulnerable in their presence. She wanted to cry out, to scream that he belonged here, with her, but the words caught in her throat, heavy and unyielding.

Whisper gathered his few belongings, stuffing them hastily into a small, tattered backpack, his expression a mix of joy and sadness. Ivy could see the tears glistening in his eyes as he turned to her, and for a brief moment, time stood still. Their gazes locked, and in that fleeting moment, Ivy felt a pang of loss that would haunt her for years to come. She never learned his real name, but it didn’t matter. In her heart, he would forever be Whisper—the boy who had made her feel, even for a short time, that she mattered.

“I’ll miss you, four eyes,” he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. It was a promise wrapped in heartache, and Ivy nodded, unable to find her voice. The others were celebrating, but she felt as if the world had shifted beneath her feet. As he walked away, Ivy’s heart shattered into a million pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last. She felt the weight of abandonment settle over her like a thick fog, heavy and unrelenting.

That night, as she lay in her narrow cot, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, Ivy felt utterly alone. The other children were asleep, but she was wide awake, her mind racing with thoughts of what could have been. The walls around her felt like a prison, and the world outside loomed large and intimidating, a place she longed to escape to, yet feared. Would she ever find the strength to navigate life without the only person who had ever truly seen her?

She pulled her sketchbook close, its pages filled with half-finished drawings that reflected the whirlwind of emotions inside her. Each brushstroke was a silent scream for understanding, a way to communicate the depths of her soul in ways words could not. She poured her feelings into her art, trying to express the unexpressable—the loneliness, the yearning, the aching desire for connection. Her sketches became her refuge, a world where she could be free to explore the colours of her emotions without fear of judgment.

From that moment on, Ivy buried her emotions deep within, building walls around her heart like bricks in a fortress. She learned to mask her feelings with a smile, to blend into the background, even as the storms raged within her. She was determined to leave this place behind, to forge a new life where she could be seen and heard. As she turned the pages of her sketchbook, she promised herself that one day, she would break free from the shadows of the orphanage and paint her own future, one stroke at a time.

But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the ache of Whisper’s departure lingered, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. The question that haunted her was whether she would ever find the love and connection she so desperately craved or remain forever lost in the echoes of her past. Would her art be enough to fill the void, or would she always be searching for a missing piece, a light to guide her through the darkness?

With a heavy heart and an unshakeable resolve, Ivy closed her sketchbook and nestled into her pillow, allowing the tears to flow freely. In the dim glow of the orphanage, she made a silent promise: one day, she would reclaim her voice, her art, and her place in the world. But for now, she lay in the darkness, holding onto the hope that one day, she would find a way to be seen again.