The thing about silence is, it grows.
It wraps around you slowly, like ivy creeping up a wall.
At first, it's just to protect you.
Then it traps you.
I didn't realize how tightly it had gripped me until I started speaking again. Even if it was only in pieces.
Even if the words still tasted like blood.
It had been two days since the note in my locker. Two days since the last message from the unknown number.
A part of me had begun to feel paranoid. Like I was imagining it all.
But I knew better.
Trauma doesn't need permission to exist.
It lingers, whether you acknowledge it or not.
At school, I found Aariz waiting outside the art room. His arms crossed, hood pulled up even though it was warm.
When he saw me, he said nothing. Just tilted his head toward the back stairs.
I followed.
We ended up sitting near the old fire escape—our unofficial spot now. Hidden behind the gym, beneath a broken security light that never worked.
"You ignored me all morning," he said, not accusing—just stating.
"I needed to think," I replied.
"About what?"
I hesitated. Then I reached into my bag and handed him my notebook.
The same one where I wrote every night. The one Maya gave me. The one I never let anyone see.
He looked at it like it was made of glass.
Then back at me.
"You want me to read this?"
I nodded. My heart was in my throat.
He opened to the last page and read the first line.
"Today I didn't cry."
"Today I didn't cry"
His eyes flickered.
He didn't speak as he kept reading. His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the page, his jaw clenching once, subtly.
When he finally closed it, he didn't say anything right away.
Then:
"You write like someone who's been screaming for years."
"I have," I whispered. "Just not with sound."
After that, something shifted between us.
We didn't talk constantly. We didn't become those cliché, inseparable high school friends who giggle in corridors.
But we understood each other now.
He was my shadow in hallways. My silence in the storm. The one person who didn't ask me to be okay when I clearly wasn't.
And I started to crave that—his stillness, his presence, his rare but meaningful words.
That afternoon, something unexpected happened.
I was called to the principal's office.
Not a place I'd ever been before.
My stomach twisted as I walked down the long corridor, trying to calm my breathing.
Had someone seen the bruise?
Had Aariz told someone?
Had the messages been tracked?
When I entered the office, a woman I didn't recognize stood beside the principal's desk.
She wore a blazer and a lanyard around her neck that read: District School Counselor – Ms. Hale.
"Lina," she said kindly, offering a tight smile. " have a seat." " please have a seat."
I did, slowly.
She folded her hands.
"I've been reviewing some concerning reports from staff," she said. "A few teachers have mentioned… changes in your behavior. Withdrawn. Unresponsive. Anxious."
I said nothing.
My hands curled into fists in my lap.
"I also understand you've been seen spending a lot of time alone behind school buildings. With a student named Aariz Khan."
I flinched.
"He hasn't done anything," I said quickly.
"This isn't about him," she said gently. "This is about you, Lina."
She leaned forward slightly.
"I'm going to ask something, and I need you to be honest with me. Has someone at home hurt you?"
The words echoed in my ears like a gunshot.
I stared at her.
I could lie. I could nod and smile and say I was just tired, just overworked, just sensitive.
Or—
I could speak.
Really speak.
My throat tightened. My heart pounded.
And then, before I could stop myself, I whispered, "Yes."
It was one word.
Just one.
But it felt like an earthquake under my skin.
Ms. Hale didn't gasp. She didn't press for more. She just nodded, like she'd heard it before, and said, "Thank you for telling me."
I didn't cry.
But I wanted to.
Later that day, I didn't tell Aariz what happened in the office.
But I think he knew anyway.
We met at the usual place again after last period. This time, I handed him something new.
A photo.
Faded. Torn at one corner. It showed me as a kid—maybe eight—standing beside my father.
At first glance, we looked like a happy family.
But if you looked closer, really looked…
You'd see my smile didn't reach my eyes.
"I used to think I was broken," I said. "That maybe I deserved it somehow. That I was weak for not stopping him."
Aariz didn't interrupt.
"But now," I continued, "I think silence isn't weakness. It's survival. And I'm tired of just surviving."
He looked at me then—really looked.
"You want to fight back?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Then you're not broken," he said. "You're brave."
That night, I got another message.
After days of silence, the number buzzed back to life.
"You talked, didn't you?"
My pulse spiked.
"You're going to regret that."
For the first time, I didn't flinch.
I stared at the screen, feeling my fingers tremble—not with fear, but with anger.
I typed back.
"No. You will."
Then I blocked the number.
Deleted the thread.
And for the first time, I felt something unfamiliar bloom in my chest.
Not fear. Not pain.
Power.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual.
I brushed my hair. Put on my cleanest uniform. Applied a little lip balm.
I didn't do it to look pretty.
I did it because I wanted to feel human again.
When I walked into school, something in me felt taller. Straighter. Stronger.
I saw Aariz leaning against the old fence near the bike rack.
He smiled when he saw me. Just a small one.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded. "Not yet. But soon."