Chapter Twelve: The Things We Keep Quiet
There were days that felt like paper — light, delicate, easily torn.
Friday was one of them.
Kira woke to sunlight filtering through her curtains and a message on her phone.
Mina: Meet me behind the gym. Before first period. Don't be late.
There was no emoji. No explanation.
Just a sentence that made Kira's hands shake a little as she got dressed.
She moved quickly, skipping breakfast, pulling her hoodie over her head even though it was already too warm. The sketchbook went into her backpack last — as always — tucked like a secret against her spine.
The halls were mostly empty when she slipped into the back stairwell. The ones who got to school early either wanted to be alone or had nowhere else to be. Kira usually fell into the first category.
But today, she had somewhere to go.
Mina was waiting outside, her back against the brick wall, one sneaker pressed flat behind her, headphones around her neck like armor.
Kira stopped a few steps away.
"You came," Mina said.
"You told me to."
"You didn't have to listen."
Kira tilted her head. "I always listen to you."
A small smile flickered across Mina's lips. But it didn't last.
"I think someone told my mom," she said.
Kira's stomach dropped. "Told her what?"
"About the poem. About… us."
Kira stayed still.
Mina crossed her arms, not defensive — just holding herself together.
"She didn't say anything directly. But she started leaving pamphlets on my bed again. The 'you are loved but also probably confused' kind."
Kira winced. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not," Mina said, voice firmer than before. "She can ignore what I say. But she can't ignore what I do."
Kira stepped closer. "And what are you doing?"
Mina looked at her. "Choosing this."
The moment stretched between them.
Kira reached out.
Took Mina's hand.
It was warm. A little sweaty.
Real.
"I'm with you," Kira said.
"Even when it's hard?"
"Especially then."
The day moved slowly after that.
Like the world knew too much had already happened.
In English, they read a poem about silence — how it could fill a room more loudly than noise ever could. Kira underlined a line with her finger: we shape ourselves around what we cannot say.
She looked at Mina, just for a second.
Mina was already looking at her.
After class, someone bumped into Kira in the hallway — harder than necessary. A senior with too much cologne and a football logo on his sleeve. He didn't look back. Just kept walking.
It wasn't an accident.
Mina noticed.
But she didn't say anything.
Just walked a little closer for the rest of the day.
They met again after school, on the edge of the football field where the bleachers cast long shadows across the grass.
Kira sat on the lowest row, sketching nothing in particular — a girl with wings, maybe. Or claws. Or both.
Mina dropped her backpack beside her and said, "My mom asked if I wanted to go to that church retreat next month."
Kira kept drawing. "Do you?"
"No."
"Did you say that?"
"Not yet."
Kira looked up.
"I want to," Mina added. "But I know what comes with it. The lectures. The quiet disappointment. The 'we just want what's best for you' tone."
Kira nodded.
"I don't think she wants to fix me," Mina said. "I think she wants to erase the version of me that scares her."
Kira drew a line down the center of the page. "You're not something broken."
"I know. But sometimes I still feel like I am."
Kira didn't answer at first.
Then she said, "Me too."
The wind stirred the grass.
A few boys ran drills on the far end of the field, shouting plays into the wind, their voices meaningless in the distance.
Kira looked down at her sketchbook.
Then tore out the page she'd just finished.
It was a mess of dark lines, wings folding into fists.
She handed it to Mina. "This is how I felt this morning."
Mina studied it. "It's beautiful."
"It's not supposed to be."
"Doesn't matter," Mina said. "Even your ugly is beautiful."
Kira blinked, caught off guard.
Mina reached for her face, thumb brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear.
"I meant what I said," she whispered. "I'm choosing this. Every day. Even when it scares me."
Kira felt something ache inside her.
Not bad.
Just deep.
Like something waking up.
"I'm scared too," she said.
Mina leaned in. "We can be scared together."
And they kissed again — under the bleachers this time, in the golden hush of late afternoon, hidden but not hiding.
Later that evening, Kira sat on her bed, phone buzzing with messages she didn't answer.
Her sketchbook was open, pages scattered with small drawings of hands. Reaching, resting, holding.
She wasn't sure who she was becoming.
But for once, she didn't hate it.
There was a knock on her bedroom door.
Her dad.
Kira sat up straighter. "Yeah?"
He opened it slowly. "Just checking in."
She nodded. "I'm okay."
"You were quiet at dinner."
"I'm usually quiet at dinner."
He smiled faintly. "Fair."
Then, a pause.
"I saw that picture," he said.
Kira froze.
Her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
"I didn't want to embarrass you by bringing it up," he added quickly. "I just wanted you to know… it's okay."
Kira stared.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm still learning. But I'm trying."
She didn't speak.
Not right away.
But her eyes stung.
And when he stepped forward — awkward, unsure — she let him put a hand on her shoulder.
Didn't flinch.
"Thanks," she whispered.
He nodded. "That Mina girl… she seems brave."
"She is."
"So are you."
Kira didn't believe that.
Not yet.
But maybe one day.
That night, she dreamed of wings.
Not broken ones.
Not jagged.
Just two shapes stretching wide across a rooftop sky, unfolding slowly, catching wind that didn't try to stop them.
When she woke up, her hand was already moving across the page — lines blooming like memory, like hope.
She didn't know what would happen next.
What her classmates would say.
What Mina's mother would do.
What the world would demand of them next week or next month or next year.
But in this moment, she wasn't hiding.
And neither was Mina.
And that, somehow, felt like enough.