Chapter Ten: The Quiet Kind of Brave
(Zaria's POV)
At first, I thought homesickness would fade like jet lag.
It didn't. It just changed shape.
Every morning, I tied my hair, packed my bag, and walked into Alderbridge High with a steady smile — like armor. But sometimes, even small things felt heavy.
The way people spoke — fast, casual, words tumbling over each other like waves.
The way they laughed at jokes I didn't always understand.
The way teachers said, "Any volunteers?" and I wanted to, but fear held my hand down.
Back home, I was the loud one in class, always answering questions, always sure.
Here, I was "quiet."
A girl with a soft accent and a careful smile.
One day in English, Ms. Lang asked us to describe "home." Everyone wrote about bedrooms, pets, or their favorite coffee shops.
I wrote about the sound of azan drifting through the window at sunset. The smell of rain on rooftops. The warmth of Ma's voice when she called me Ria.
When Ms. Lang read mine aloud — softly, like it was fragile — the class was silent. I thought maybe, just for a second, they saw me.
After school, I called home like I always did. Every day, without fail.
Ma's face filled the screen, a little grainy but bright. "Ria, you're eating properly, right?"
"Yes, Ma," I said automatically.
She smiled, the kind that made my chest ache. "You look thinner."
"I'm fine," I lied, even though lunch was sometimes just a granola bar and nerves.
Baba leaned in from behind her, still in his office shirt. "Study well, hmm? Make us proud."
I nodded, blinking fast.
When the call ended, I sat for a long time staring at the empty screen. It was strange — how hearing their voices made me feel both whole and hollow.
That night, Maya came into my room with two cups of cha. "You okay?"
I shrugged. "Just tired."
She didn't push. We sat quietly, the steam curling between us. Sometimes friendship didn't need words — just presence.
The next week brought rain — real rain this time, loud and heavy, drumming on the roof like home. But at school, things didn't soften as easily.
A group of kids in my history class giggled when I mispronounced "Massachusetts." I laughed too, pretending it didn't sting.
At lunch, I overheard someone say, "She's new — from somewhere in Asia, I think."
Somewhere.
Not Bangladesh. Not my country. Just "somewhere."
That evening, Lia found me staring at the rain outside our window.
"Ria," she said gently — the only one here who used my home name. "You don't have to fit in overnight."
I sighed. "What if I never do?"
She smiled, tired but sure. "Then maybe the world can fit itself around you a little instead."
Her words stayed with me.
Over the next days, I tried again — little things.
Answering questions in class, even if my voice shook.
Joining a group project and actually speaking up.
Smiling at the girl who sat next to me in math, who ended up showing me how to use the graphing calculator.
Small steps. Tiny victories.
At night, when I called Ma again, I told her about the rain, the laughter, the mango-flavored ice cream Mr. Howard let me take home.
She listened, eyes soft. "See, Ria? You're building new stories."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe."
After the call, I looked around the apartment — Lia's half-done laundry, Maya's open sketchbook, our shared chaos — and realized: I was building something, even if it didn't have a name yet.
Maybe bravery wasn't loud.
Maybe it was this — showing up every day, speaking even when you tremble, calling home not just to remember, but to keep going.
That night, before sleeping, I wrote in my journal:
"Home doesn't fade. It stretches — across oceans, across fear, across days when I still feel small."
And for the first time since I came to Alderbridge, I slept without waking up at 3 a.m.
Because maybe I was still finding my way.
But I was walking it — one quiet, brave step at a time.