It was all anyone talked about for days. The fight, not with fists but with words, had stirred something deep and raw in everyone. It felt like we had cracked open a part of the school that had long been sealed shut. People who used to flinch at Elijah's commands or laugh along with Derrick's cruelty now kept their heads down.
Watching.
Waiting.
Listening for what would come next.
That Monday afternoon, the air was heavy with silence as we were called to the deputy head's office. Mr. Harris had summoned me, Tasha, and Imelda. The three of us walked through the courtyard like shadows. Tasha walked closest to me, her shoulder occasionally brushing mine. I could feel the quiet determination in her steps, the storm that had once been in her eyes now steadied into something stronger. She didn't need to speak. I knew she was scared, but not broken.
Mr. Harris sat behind his desk; his hands folded over a thick manila folder. His eyes scanned us slowly, as though weighing the truth that clung to our skin.
"We've been made aware of troubling behavior involving certain students," he said. "And thanks to several reports, including yours, Miss Wambua," he nodded at Tasha, "we are opening a formal investigation."
A shift moved through my chest like a window opening for the first time in years. It was subtle, but undeniable. The pressure I had been carrying, the tight, silent ache that lived in my ribs, finally eased. We were being heard.
Derrick didn't show up to school the rest of that week. No warnings. No goodbyes. Only whispers. Some said he'd been suspended. Others said his parents had pulled him out. One rumor said there had been a fight at home and the police were involved.
Imelda said nothing. But she began to change. She started laughing again. Not the hollow kind, but laughter that warmed the space around her. Her eyes didn't look like they were searching for an exit anymore.
One quiet afternoon under the jacaranda tree, she turned to me and said, "I ended it. For good this time."
I studied her face, saw the remnants of bruised trust there, but also saw the strength of someone reclaiming herself.
"I'm proud of you," I said softly.
She gave me a small, real smile. "Thank you. For being kind when I didn't always make it easy."
"You deserved kindness," I said. "You just needed to remember that for yourself."
Tasha and I never made a big statement about what we were becoming. But it was there. In every glance. Every breath that lingered between us. She started waiting for me outside the gate each morning. I'd spot her before she saw me, always hugging her sketchbook tight to her chest like it carried something fragile inside. And when she saw me, her face would light up in a way that made the whole day worth it.
We'd walk close. Our hands would brush, again and again, until finally she reached for mine one morning and just held it. No words. No glance. Only the quiet weight of her fingers wrapped around mine. I swear my heart beat louder than the world in that moment. She'd lean in during class, whisper jokes in my ear and laugh when I tried not to smile. Sometimes she'd draw on the corners of my notes, hearts and stars and tiny caricatures of me with ridiculous hair.
One day, she drew a heart beside my name in her math book. She closed it quickly, but I saw it.
I didn't mention it. But I smiled all day.
One afternoon, the sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings as we sat beneath our pine tree. The place that had become our quiet sanctuary. She had her sketchbook with her.
Without saying anything, she pulled out a folded page and handed it to me. I opened it slowly.
It was a drawing of the three of us, Tasha, Imelda, and me, sitting beneath this same pine tree, our heads tilted back in laughter. She had drawn the light in our eyes. The way we leaned toward each other. The way joy looked when it was real.
"You drew this from memory?" I asked.
She shook her head gently, her voice barely a whisper. "From hope."
I looked at her, her face glowing softly in the fading sunlight. Without thinking, without planning, I reached out and touched her cheek. She leaned into it. Our eyes met, and the air between us grew still. Thicker somehow.
"I think about you all the time," I admitted.
"I know," she said. "I think about you too."
And then we kissed. Soft and Tentative. The kind of kiss that didn't demand anything but promised everything. Her lips were warm and tasted faintly of orange from the juice she'd had earlier. My hand cradled her face, her fingers tangled in mine. It was slow and careful, like we were afraid to wake the world. And when we pulled apart, we didn't speak. We just looked at each other. And smiled.
The school administration didn't waste time. Elijah was brought in several times. Rumors spread that he had been caught stealing another student's phone. Some said he had pushed someone during PE. Another whispered that he had threatened a teacher. This time, no one defended him. Not even his usual followers.
By the end of the term, Elijah was expelled. He disappeared from our lives. And no one missed him. Life didn't suddenly turn perfect. Grades still slipped. Gossip still echoed. Some days were still hard. But the heaviness, the constant weight of fear and anger, was gone. I started journaling again. Not because I was drowning, but because I wanted to remember what it felt like to come up for air.
To live.
To feel.
To love.
I wrote about the tree, the fight, the friendship, the quiet moments that made everything worth it, and I also wrote about her. Tasha. The way her laugh healed things inside me. The way her love didn't fix me, but reminded me I wasn't broken.
One evening, I read her a page from my journal. We were alone, lying on the grass, the sky glowing orange above us.
"You're a writer," she said softly.
I shook my head. "Maybe."
She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
"No. You are. And one day, I think the whole world's going to know it."
During the last week of term, the school held Creative Arts Day. Music. Paintings. Stories. Photographs. It felt like our school had been cracked open and all this color had come pouring out. Tasha submitted a series of sketches. Imelda stood on stage and performed a poem with fire in her eyes. I stood on a small wooden stage, my journal in hand, fingers trembling. The room fell silent.
"Sometimes you don't realize how strong you are until you have no choice but to be.
Sometimes love isn't loud. It's quiet. It's steady.
It's sitting beside someone when they think they're unlovable.
Sometimes growing up feels like falling apart until you realize you were only making room for something better.
And sometimes, the people who save you are the ones who never stopped believing in you."
When I looked up, Tasha's eyes were full. Imelda clapped first. Even Mr. Harris nodded, slow and sure. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn't hiding behind anyone else's story.
I was telling my own.
That night, I lay under the stars again. But this time, I wasn't lost. I wasn't running. Tasha lay beside me, her head resting on my chest, listening to my heartbeat like it was a song meant only for her. Her hand was in mine. Our fingers fit together like they had always belonged.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered.
I turned to her. "We made it through."
She nodded, then kissed me softly.
"Together."
And in that stillness, under the sky that had once felt so far away, I knew something had changed. The storms had passed. And love had found us through the cracks.