The alarm buzzed faintly on Angel's nightstand, but she was already awake. She'd been lying in bed for hours, watching the ceiling slowly shift from black to gray as dawn broke. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Her fingers instinctively brushed the fabric of the band around her wrist—worn, slightly frayed, and precious. It had belonged to Andrew.
She tightened it and exhaled sharply.
The dream had been the same again—screeching tires, her mother's scream, Andrew's bloody smile. She hadn't cried, but the pressure in her chest hadn't left.
Downstairs, the house was still. Her father had left early. She found a note on the counter in his strong handwriting:
"Stay strong. Love.
She folded the note into her pocket and grabbed her backpack.
School was no more forgiving than the day before. As soon as she stepped out of the car, the same eyes turned her way—curious, amused, judgmental.
"Morning, mystery girl," a voice muttered as she passed. It was Victor again, standing with a few boys by the school gate.
"Still no friends?" he added with a smirk.
Angel didn't respond. Her silence was a choice, a shield she wore like armor. She kept walking.
"She's like a ghost," one of the boys whispered behind her. "Doesn't talk, doesn't blink. Creepy."
Her grip on the strap of her backpack tightened. Andrew's voice echoed in her mind—full of warmth and mischief. "Don't let them win, Angel.
She straightened her back and walked on.
During second period, the literature teacher clapped his hands sharply to get everyone's attention.
"Today, we're continuing with our unit on rhetoric. You'll pair up and prepare for a short, in-class debate. Topic: 'Grief makes people stronger.' You'll have ten minutes to prepare. Then I'll pick volunteers."
Groans filled the room. Angel didn't move.
"Angel," the teacher called, "you'll be with Hannah."
Hannah blinked. She hadn't spoken a word to Angel all week, though she'd been watching.
As Angel walked over and sat beside her, Feyi gave her a wary glance. "You okay with this?"
Angel nodded once. "Sure."
Feyi studied her. "You want the 'for' or 'against' side?"
Angel said, "Against."
Hannah raised an eyebrow. "Alright."
Ten minutes passed in tense silence. Angel barely said anything. Hannah did most of the planning. When it was their turn, she stood up first and delivered her speech—polished and persuasive.
Then it was Angel's turn.
She stood slowly, hands calm, gaze forward.
"Grief doesn't make you stronger," she began, voice steady. "It makes you quieter. Colder. It makes you good at pretending."
A pause.
"Some people carry grief like a weight. Others wear it like skin. But stronger? No. It just makes you different."
The room fell silent.
The teacher blinked. "Thank you, Angel."
Hannah stared at her as she sat down.
"That didn't sound like a script," she whispered.
Angel didn't reply.
After school, Angel sat quietly in the backseat as the driver cruised down the tree-lined road back to her new house. The car smelled faintly of leather and peppermint. The radio played softly.
"Rough day?" the driver asked casually, glancing in the mirror.
She shrugged. "It's just school."
He gave a small nod and said nothing more.
When they pulled into the driveway, the sun was already leaning low. The house looked perfect from the outside, but to Angel, it felt like a museum—too big, too quiet, too polished to feel real.
Mark was in his study, the door slightly ajar. Papers were stacked neatly, and a military laptop blinked softly beside him. A faded photo of Mrs. Dewson sat on the corner of his desk.
Hearing the front door, he stepped out, meeting her in the hallway.
"You're back," he said, his voice warm but firm. "How was school?"
"It was good," she said, too quickly.
He studied her face. Her posture was calm, her words practiced—but her eyes… her eyes told the truth.
Still, he didn't press.
"Alright," he said gently. "Get some rest. Dinner's in the oven."
She nodded and turned toward her room, her shoulders stiff.
That night, she sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the photo she kept under her pillow—Andrew in his graduation cap, smiling like the world couldn't touch him.
"You'd probably say I handled it well," she whispered. "But I'm just trying to breathe, Drew."
Outside, the sky was scattered with stars. She stood, walked out to the balcony, and looked up. The night air was cool, brushing against her skin like a memory.
"If you were here... things would be different."
No answer came. Only silence.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her fingers found the band on her wrist again. The scar near it pulsed faintly, a reminder that her story wasn't over.
"One day at a time," she whispered.
Elsewhere, in a dorm room crowded with posters and clothes, Feyi sat on her bed with her laptop open. Her fingers moved quickly across the keyboard.
She typed: "Dewson family"
The page loaded.
Her eyes widened.
A headline stared back at her:
"Tragic Loss: Wife and Children of Decorated Soldier Killed in Highway Crash."
And in the photo—there she was. Angel Dewson.
Hannah leaned back, stunned.
So the new girl wasn't just quiet.
She was hiding.