The morning air was damp, the kind that made Angela's school uniform stick slightly to her back. She walked with her arms tightly folded across her chest. Her mother had left early without a word again. The house had been quiet, but not in a peaceful way. Just... vacant.
She walked to school, as usual. Thirty excruciating minutes on tired feet.
But the silence gave her time to think.
What had Miss Eniola meant by "healing begins on a small scale"?
What if healing wasn't meant for her?
When she arrived at the school gate, a familiar voice called out to her.
"Angela!"
She turned. There stood Gabriel sweaty, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"I was waiting," he said. "You didn't reply to my message last night."
Angela shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."
"I figured."
He matched her pace as they walked toward the classroom.
"You okay?"
"No," she answered, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "But I'm here."
Gabriel laughed softly. "Progress."
As they entered the school grounds, something unexpected caught their attention on the bulletin board: a brightly colored flyer pinned at the top.
Expression Week — Share Your Story
Angela's eyes locked onto it. Students were encouraged to submit poems, short stories, or spoken word performances. Selected entries would be presented at the school assembly.
She stared at it a bit longer than necessary.
Gabriel noticed.
"Are you thinking about doing it?"
She scoffed, almost bitterly. "Me? Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because no one cares what I have to say."
Gabriel was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly,
"I do."
She looked at him, doubt clouding her eyes.
"Would you actually listen?"
"I already am," he replied.
Angela had no response to that.
Later that day, Angela found herself back in Miss Eniola's office.
She hadn't meant to go there. Her feet had just… wandered.
"I saw you looking at the notice board this morning," Miss Eniola said, not looking up as she sorted through papers.
Angela frowned. "Do you watch everyone?"
"Just those who think no one's watching."
Angela slowly sat down.
"I can't do it. The writing. I can't."
"Why not?"
She hesitated.
"Because… if I'm honest, I might fall apart."
Miss Eniola set her pen down and finally looked up.
"Or," she said gently, "you might finally start to put the pieces together."
Angela stared at her hands.
"You have a story, Angela," Miss Eniola said softly. "And stories—even the painful ones deserve to be told."
Angela shook her head. "My voice is broken."
"You're here," the counselor replied. "That means it's not."
That night, Angela sat at her desk. The room was dark, the lightbulb flickering faintly. Her mother still hadn't come home. The house groaned with loneliness.
She opened her notebook and stared at the blank page.
At the top, she wrote:
The Girl You Cannot See
Her pen hovered in the air. She didn't know where to begin. Her hand trembled.
But slowly, the words came.
A girl walks alone,
Wakes to silence and cries herself to sleep.
Smiles with one side of her face,
Because the other is too tired to pretend.
A girl listens with one ear,
But feels with her whole heart.
Speaks to no one,
Because no one's ever stayed long enough to hear.
She counts her steps on the way to school,
And hides bruises like secret tattoos.
Keeps notebooks like treasures,
Because in them, she becomes real.
A girl exists.
And I am her.
Angela paused. Her eyes burned.
She kept writing.
Three pages. Four. Five.
For the first time, she didn't care if her words made someone uncomfortable.
They were hers, raw, broken, real.
When she finished, she read it once, then slid the notebook under her pillow.
She wasn't sure if she would submit it.
But she had written it.
The next morning, Gabriel was waiting at the gate again.
"You're late," he said. "By about five minutes."
Angela raised an eyebrow. "You timing me now?"
He grinned. "Always."
She said nothing, but bumped his shoulder lightly with hers.
They walked in silence for a while.
Then Gabriel asked, "Did you write something?"
Angela blinked. "How did you know?"
"Your eyes," he said. "You look like someone who's met their own reflection."
Angela looked away, hiding a small, shy smile.
"I did."
Gabriel's voice was gentle. "Are you going to submit it?"
Angela didn't answer right away.
But something inside her whispered: Maybe.
By lunchtime, the school buzzed with excitement about Expression Week. Students were drafting stories, trading poems, rehearsing in groups.
Angela sat on the edge of the field, notebook clutched to her chest.
Gabriel joined her.
"You don't have to read it to everyone," he said. "But maybe let one person read it."
Angela bit her lip. "You?"
He blinked, surprised. "Me?"
She nodded, then slowly handed him the folded pages from her notebook.
Gabriel took them gently like something sacred.
He read in silence. Page after page. His expression didn't change, but his eyes shimmered.
When he finished, he looked up at her.
"You wrote this?"
Angela nodded.
He whispered, "It's beautiful. It hurts. But mostlyit's true."
Angela looked down, overwhelmed.
Gabriel placed the notebook back in her lap.
"I'm proud of you."
Her chest tightened.
She had never heard those words before.
And somehow, they were enough.
Somehow, they were everything.