Through the Glass
Through the glass panel, I saw her.
Mira.
She was sitting at her desk, her head resting on her folded arms, asleep as if the world around her didn't matter. Her hair fell over the side of her face, hiding her expression. The morning light from the window touched her softly, making her look almost peaceful.
Almost.
Relief flooded through me so suddenly I had to grip the door handle tighter.
She's here.
She's okay.
She's real.
For a whole second, I just stood there, staring. Watching her chest rise and fall slowly. Making sure she wasn't going to disappear the moment I blinked.
Yesterday felt unreal. The silence. The fear. The unanswered calls.
But she was right there.
Alive. Present.
So why didn't it feel completely normal?
I pushed the door open quietly. The classroom noise wrapped around me — chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly, pages flipping.
No one seemed to notice anything strange.
Except me.
I walked toward her desk slowly, as if moving too fast would break something fragile.
"Mira," I whispered.
She didn't move.
I hesitated, then gently touched her shoulder.
Her body flinched.
Not dramatically. Just slightly.
But enough for me to notice.
She lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes met mine.
They looked tired.
Not just sleepy.
Tired.
"You're here," I said before I could stop myself.
She blinked at me, confused. "Yeah… where else would I be?"
Her voice was soft. Normal.
Too normal.
I sat down beside her.
"You didn't text me," I said quietly.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.
Silence.
"I called you," I added. "A lot."
She looked down.
I forced a small laugh, trying to hide the worry creeping back in. "At least tell me your phone died or something."
Nothing.
The air between us felt heavy.
She wasn't ignoring me.
She was choosing not to answer.
And that hurt more.
"Mira," I said softly, leaning closer. "I was scared."
Her breathing changed — just a little.
She swallowed.
But she still didn't speak.
And in that silence, I understood something.
Whatever happened last night…
Wasn't something she could explain that easily.
"Mira," I started again, softer this time.
Before she could react—
"Good morning, class."
The sharp voice sliced through the room.
Mrs. D'Souza walked in, heels clicking against the floor with perfect rhythm. Conversations died instantly. Chairs scraped as everyone rushed back to their seats properly.
Mira straightened immediately.
Too quickly.
Her hand slipped off the desk as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.
"Books out. Page seventy-four," Mrs. D'Souza said without looking up from her register.
The classroom shifted into routine mode.
Normal.
Safe.
Predictable.
I glanced at Mira.
She was already opening her bag, movements precise, mechanical. Not once did she look at me.
"Mira," I whispered again, barely moving my lips.
She pulled out her notebook.
Still no answer.
Mrs. D'Souza's eyes swept across the room. "I hope everyone completed yesterday's assignment."
A pause.
Her gaze lingered slightly longer on Mira.
"Mira, you weren't here yesterday."
My heart skipped.
Mira froze for half a second.
Then she stood up.
"Yes, ma'am."
Her voice was steady.
Too steady.
"Reason?"
The word hung in the air.
The entire class suddenly seemed interested.
I watched Mira carefully.
She didn't look at me.
"Not feeling well, ma'am."
Simple.
Short.
Controlled.
Mrs. D'Souza studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Submit it tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mira sat down slowly.
But I noticed something no one else did.
Her fingers were trembling slightly as she turned the page.
Not from fear of the teacher.
From something else.
Something heavier.
I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice.
"You don't look fine," I murmured.
For the first time since I walked in, she finally glanced at me properly.
And in her eyes—
I saw it.
Not anger.
Not irritation.
But exhaustion.
The kind that doesn't come from staying up late.
The kind that comes from holding everything in.
"Focus on the lesson," she whispered.
But it didn't sound like a request.
It sounded like a shield.
Mrs. D'Souza's voice blended into the background as she began explaining the chapter. Words filled the board. Chalk scraped softly.
I tried to focus.
I really did.
But my attention kept drifting back to Mira.
She wasn't writing.
She was staring at the page.
Not reading.
Just staring.
Her jaw was slightly clenched.
"Mira," I whispered again, nudging her notebook slightly toward her. "Write something. She'll notice."
She blinked, as if returning from somewhere far away.
"Oh."
She reached into her bag to pull out a pen.
That's when I saw it.
A faint purple mark around her wrist.
Not large.
Not fresh.
But noticeable.
It curved lightly around the side of her skin, just above her hand.
I froze.
"Mira…" I murmured.
She followed my gaze.
And immediately pulled her sleeve down.
Too quickly.
"It's nothing," she said under her breath.
I hadn't even asked.
My heart started beating faster.
"It doesn't look like nothing."
She avoided my eyes.
"I bumped into something."
Her answer came fast.
Too fast.
I studied her face, searching for something — hesitation, guilt, truth.
But she kept her expression steady.
Only her fingers betrayed her.
They were gripping the pen too tightly.
"You sure?" I asked, softer this time.
She nodded once.
Sharp.
Final.
"Drop it, Rhea."
The way she said my name wasn't harsh.
It was tired.
And suddenly I understood something.
Whatever that mark was…
Whatever happened yesterday…
She didn't want the whole classroom to know.
And maybe—
She didn't even want me to know.
I looked down at my notebook, pretending to copy the notes from the board.
But my mind was racing.
Strict parents.
Missed calls.
Silence.
Trembling hands.
And now—
That bruise.
The lesson continued.
But something had shifted.
Relief from this morning was gone.
Replaced by a quiet, growing worry.
Not about what happened last night.
But about what was happening at her home.
Mrs. D'Souza continued writing on the board, her voice steady and indifferent to everything happening beyond the lesson.
I tried to copy the notes.
Tried.
But my eyes kept drifting to Mira.
She wasn't writing anymore.
Her breathing had changed.
Short.
Shallow.
Her fingers were pressing against the edge of the desk again, knuckles paling slightly.
"Mira?" I whispered.
She didn't respond.
Her gaze wasn't on the board.
It wasn't on her notebook.
It wasn't anywhere.
It was distant.
Like she was somewhere else entirely.
The chalk stopped moving.
"Mira," Mrs. D'Souza called suddenly. "Read the second paragraph."
The room went quiet.
Mira didn't move.
A few students turned around to look at her.
"Mira?" the teacher repeated, sharper this time.
Mira blinked rapidly, as if the sound had just reached her.
She stood up abruptly.
Too abruptly.
Her chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"I—I can't," she muttered.
The class stared.
Mrs. D'Souza frowned. "Excuse me?"
But Mira didn't answer.
She grabbed her bag.
Not neatly.
Not calmly.
Just grabbed it.
And before anyone could process what was happening—
She walked out.
No permission.
No explanation.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
My heart was pounding.
Mrs. D'Souza looked stunned for a moment, then annoyed. "Unacceptable behavior," she muttered, picking up the chalk again.
But I wasn't listening anymore.
I stared at the closed door.
Her sleeve had slipped up slightly when she grabbed her bag.
And for a split second—
I saw the mark again.
This wasn't about homework.
This wasn't about being sick.
Something was wrong.
Really wrong.
I didn't even realize I had stood up until Mrs. D'Souza's voice cut through my thoughts.
"And where do you think you're going, Rhea?"
My throat felt dry.
I had two choices.
Stay.
Or follow her.
My throat tightened.
Every eye in the classroom was on me now.
I forced myself to breathe.
"Ma'am," I said carefully, keeping my voice steady, "I think she's not feeling well. Can I just check on her?"
Mrs. D'Souza looked at me over her glasses.
"This is not a hospital, Rhea."
A few students snickered softly.
I ignored them.
"She didn't look okay, ma'am," I added quietly. "Please."
For a second, I thought she would refuse.
The silence stretched.
Then she sighed.
"Five minutes."
Relief washed over me so fast it almost made me dizzy.
"Thank you, ma'am."
I didn't run.
I walked quickly — controlled — out of the classroom.
The corridor felt colder than before.
Quieter.
Empty.
My footsteps echoed softly as I looked around.
"Mira?" I called, keeping my voice low.
No answer.
The washroom door at the end of the hallway was slightly open.
I hesitated.
Then I heard it.
Not crying.
Not exactly.
Just—
Breathing.
Uneven.
I stepped closer.
"Mira?"
She was standing near the sink, gripping the edge of it.
Her head was lowered.
Her shoulders were rising and falling too fast.
The fluorescent light above her flickered slightly.
For a moment, she didn't notice me.
Then she looked up.
Her eyes were glossy.
Not from tears.
From holding them back.
"I'm fine," she said immediately.
But her voice trembled.
I walked closer, slower this time.
"You left."
Silence.
"I couldn't breathe," she admitted, barely above a whisper.
That hit harder than anything else.
I didn't ask about the bruise.
I didn't ask about her parents.
I didn't ask about last night.
Instead, I did the simplest thing.
I stood beside her.
Not too close.
Not too far.
"You don't have to explain," I said softly.
Her fingers loosened slightly on the sink.
For the first time since morning, she looked at me properly.
And this time—
There was no shield in her eyes.
Just fear.
And something else.
Shame.
"I didn't text you," she said quietly.
I swallowed.
"I know."
"My phone…" She stopped herself.
Her jaw tightened.
She looked away.
"I'll tell you. Just… not here."
That was the closest thing to honesty she had given me.
And it was enough.
For now.