The school hall always felt too big, too polished, too echoing for Amina's liking. It smelled faintly of lemon floor cleaner and old wooden pews, and the morning sunlight came in angled beams that made everyone look washed-out and ghostlike. Mondays were always assembly days, and the girls filed in wearing their crisp uniforms, tired eyes, and the leftover emotions of the weekend—some hopeful, some bitter, most just surviving.
Amina took her place next to Clara as the benches creaked under the collective weight of a hundred girls. A strange buzz travelled through the room, a mixture of nerves and excitement.
"Why's everyone acting weird?" Amina whispered.
Clara leaned closer. "Letters. Monthly family letters come today."
Amina's stomach fluttered. A letter. Something from home. Something from Cuba. Something that wasn't rules or prayers or schedules or Sister Patricia's icy stare. Something from her parents—even if it was full of guilt, disappointment, or lectures—at least it would be theirs.
Sister Mathilde stepped onto the stage, holding a long wooden box filled with envelopes. "Girls," she said, voice firm but warm, "you will receive any correspondence sent over the past month. Please collect yours when your name is called. Read quietly. Reflect gratefully."
Names began. One by one, girls walked up, faces brightening or falling depending on the sender.
"Clara González."
Clara practically bounced up, grabbing her envelope with both hands. When she returned, she was already tearing it open. "From Mamá and the twins," she whispered, eyes shining.
"Amina Elías."
Amina inhaled sharply and stood. Her legs felt shaky as she walked toward the front, aware of eyes on her—the new girl, the Cuban girl, the girl who didn't follow rules without asking why. Sister Mathilde handed her an envelope, white and soft from travel. Her heart squeezed when she saw her father's handwriting—messy, slanted, familiar.
She pressed the envelope to her chest before returning to her seat.
As she sank onto the bench, she allowed herself a small smile. A letter. From home. From them. She wasn't forgotten.
All around, paper rustled, and the room hummed with quiet giggles, sniffles, and whispers.
But then Amina noticed something.
Not everyone had a letter.
Specifically—
Nina Villarreal.
The girl who had made sure Amina felt like an outsider from day one. The girl who cut jokes under her breath. Who rolled her eyes when Amina spoke Spanish with her Cuban accent. Who always walked with her chin tilted up like she was the only one here who wasn't drowning.
Nina sat two rows ahead, staring at her empty hands.
Her eyes weren't rolling now.
They weren't narrowed or judging.
They were… shining. Wet.
Nina blinked fast, like she was willing the tears back into her skull. Her jaw clenched. She straightened her back so hard she looked like she was in pain.
And something twisted deep in Amina's chest.
Clara noticed too. "Poor thing," she murmured quietly. "She hasn't received a letter in… I think three months."
Amina's throat tightened. "How do you know?"
"She always tries to hide it," Clara whispered sadly. "But everyone notices."
Amina looked again.
Nina's face was pale.
Her lips were pressed together like she was holding herself together with nothing but pride.
Amina knew that feeling too well.
That ache of waiting for someone who should care.
The sting of disappointment that never got softer.
Without thinking, she stood.
Clara blinked. "Where are you going?"
"To talk to her."
"Amina—she hates your guts."
"I know." Amina shrugged. "But I don't hate hers."
She walked down the narrow bench row, careful not to step on the wooden seat, and approached Nina quietly. The rest of the hall was busy enough that only a few people noticed.
Nina didn't look up.
Didn't acknowledge her.
Didn't breathe.
Amina slid onto the bench beside her, leaving a respectful space.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then gently:
"Did you… get one?"
Nina's chin trembled—barely, but it did. Her voice came out brittle, sharp with held-in emotion. "Why would you care?"
"Because I know what it feels like," Amina replied softly. "To wait for something that doesn't come."
Nina squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't need pity."
"It's not pity." Amina placed her envelope on her lap, fingers drumming nervously. "It's just… noticing."
Nina let out a shaky breath. "They're busy," she said fast, like she was rehearsing an excuse. "My father works. My mother is—" She stopped abruptly, swallowing. "They forget. Sometimes. That's all."
Amina nodded. "Parents forget things they shouldn't."
Nina's shoulders fell, all the fire gone from her. She finally looked at Amina—really looked.
"Don't tell anyone," she whispered. "Please."
"I won't."
A long silence.
Then Nina whispered, barely audible: "Thank you."
And it stunned Amina.
Because it wasn't sarcastic.
It wasn't mocking.
It was real.
The hall noise swelled around them—paper rustling, girls laughing, some crying softly. Far away, Sister Mathilde droned on, but Amina barely heard her.
She noticed the way Nina's hands were curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. Amina gently nudged her own letter toward her.
"You want to open it with me?" she asked. "Just… so you don't have to sit alone."
Nina stared at her like she was offering something forbidden, precious, impossible.
Then she nodded.
Amina opened her envelope slowly, tearing the edge. Her heartbeat thudded as she pulled out the folded paper.
Nina leaned slightly closer, pretending she was just glancing, but her eyes followed the motion with quiet curiosity.
Amina unfolded the letter and read the first line:
Mi Amina,
We miss you more than you know.
Her chest squeezed painfully.
Nina watched her face. "Is it good?"
Amina nodded. "Yeah… it's good."
Nina looked away again, but something in her expression softened slightly.
A crack in the armour.
A beginning.
And in that giant echoing hall, surrounded by girls trying to find their place in a world that had already decided too much for them, Amina realized something:
Enemies were often just people who were hurting where no one else could see.