Bled, Slovenia
While Ares stood on lit stages, drowning under the weight of applause, Eira walked cobblestone streets with earbuds in and sunlight on her cheeks.
EIRA, her beauty wasn't loud; it was gentle. Warm brown eyes that always seemed to be listening. A soft smile that made people feel safe. Her hair—thick and chestnut brown—was usually tied in a messy braid or bun, with strands escaping like they had better things to do. She had that cozy, windswept look—like poetry on a rainy day, or the scent of cinnamon in a stranger's scarf. Not picture-perfect, not polished—just real. And in a world full of filters and flash, real was rare.
She wasn't famous.
She wasn't trending.
But somehow, she felt more *alive* than he did.
The town of Bled was small—postcard perfect. Tourists came and went, but Eira remained. Her days were filled with routines that looked ordinary from the outside but glowed with a quiet kind of magic.
She worked part-time at a local bookshop tucked between a bakery and a flower stall. Most mornings, she'd arrive with two mugs—one for herself, one for her grumpy boss who swore he hated sweet things but always drank the cocoa with extra marshmallows.
"Morning, Mr. Jure," she'd sing.
"You're early again."
"Or maybe *time* is late."
He'd huff, but she always caught the hint of a smile.
Eira had this way of noticing people.
The old woman who walked her dog every morning? She memorized her favorite biscuits.
The shy boy who always pretended to browse but never bought anything? She slipped a book into his bag once and wrote, "Return it when you're done."
The world didn't ask her to care.
But she did.
Because she knew what it felt like to be unseen.
Her laugh came easily—loud, warm, unfiltered. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. People called her "sunny," "kind," even "too soft."
But what they didn't know was how hard it was to keep that light burning.
Eira had scars too. You just couldn't see them under all the brightness.
At night, when the world was quiet and her blanket wrapped around her like armor, she felt it—the ache of being everyone's cheerleader but never anyone's emergency contact.
The girl who gave light… often ran out of it herself.
But she never let it show.
She journaled instead. Pages filled with thoughts she didn't say out loud:
> *"I wish someone asked how I'm really doing—before I have to pretend I'm okay."*
> *"Sometimes I think I give too much of myself and forget to save a little piece just for me."*
> *"Is it selfish to want someone to see me when I'm not 'the happy one'?"*
she'd curl into her bed, stare at the stars, and whisper:
**"I hope I mattered to someone today."**
She didn't expect replies. Just… impact. Ripples. Quiet proof that warmth still had a place in a cold world.
And yet, the next morning, she'd wake up and do it all again.
Help strangers. Compliment the shy ones. Wave at the lonely kids from windows.
She believed that kindness wasn't currency—it was legacy.
That maybe the smallest words, at the right moment, could change someone's day.
Maybe even someone's life.
She didn't know her words would one day reach a boy across the sea—
A boy surrounded by a million voices who hadn't heard sincerity in a long, long time.
But the world was strange like that.
Sometimes, it only takes one quiet person to pull someone else out of the noise.
*She didn't chase stars—she simply lit up the dark places forgot to shine.