Even her classmates and setmates thought she was stupid.
Stupid for being too quiet.
Stupid for not knowing how to stand up for herself.
Stupid for still showing up every day with her worn-out uniform and untied shoelace, like she didn't realize she was everyone's punching bag.
Angel couldn't argue it.
Maybe she really was stupid.
The insults weren't always loud. Sometimes, they were worse when whispered.
"She's always alone. What's she even doing in this school?" "Probably got here by mistake." "I heard she wet her bed once in JSS2 dorm."
The laughter that followed always cut deeper than any slap.
She didn't try to defend herself anymore. She had stopped months ago. What was the point when even the teachers turned a blind eye? When her house mistress looked her over like she was invisible?
She had become... easy.
An easy target. An easy scapegoat.
That day, someone's wallet went missing. Of course, fingers pointed at her. Angel. The girl who didn't speak up. The girl who didn't fight back.
"She always looks suspicious," one said.
"She's too quiet, abeg," another chimed.
They didn't even search anyone else. Just her.
They turned out her locker. Ripped her mattress open. Tossed her books onto the dorm floor like they were trash. Her only pair of school sandals ended up in the gutter.
Angel said nothing. Not even a tear. But something inside her was already cracking. Already broken.
Later that night, she sat at the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling. The others laughed, shared stories, and played with their torch lights like nothing had happened. As if accusing someone unjustly was normal. As if being cruel was something that came with the uniform.
She didn't sleep that night. And the next morning, her eyes were hollow.
That was when Dera had enough.
"Are you going to let them take the best of you?!" Dera's voice rang sharply in the empty classroom during prep.
Angel blinked at her, not reacting.
"You're in SS1 already, Angel! Your house mistress treats you like dirt—that's already more than enough to deal with. And now you're going to let your mates walk all over you too? Like you're not even human?!"
Though Angel didn't speak, she flinched. Dera saw the subtle glance away. The same one she always used when she was hurting but pretending not to.
Dera's chest ached.
"Don't act like I don't see it. You think I don't notice the way they look at you? Or how everyone goes quiet when you enter the class? They're afraid of being associated with you. And you let them get away with it!"
Angel's lips parted slightly. Then came a whisper:
"You're not in my situation... that's why."
"Of course I'm not!" Dera snapped, but not in anger—in frustration. Her voice cracked. "But do you remember primary school? When those boys tried to take my lunch every day? Who stepped in, Angel? You did. You told the teacher. You threatened them. You even told me not to be scared, that if they touched me again, you'd report to my mum. You made me feel safe."
Angel shook her head, eyes downcast. "That was different, Dera…"
"No! It wasn't different!" Dera stepped closer. "The only difference is... now it's you who needs someone. But you're so busy pretending you're fine that no one can even reach you."
Angel bit her upper lip. Her eyes shimmered.
A sudden smack landed on her head.
"Ouch! Why—?!"
"Shut up! I can't believe I made friends with a fool," Dera muttered.
Angel stared, startled.
"I know it hurts," Dera said more softly now. "And I know you hate people interfering in your business. You always have. But I've watched you break every single day. You pretend you're strong, but you're not okay."
She took her friend's trembling hand.
"You made me strong, Angel. You were my strength. The only thing you needed back then was for someone to remind you—you could make it. That's all I'm doing now."
Angel's tears, long held back, slipped free.
"This is just a piece of cake," Dera whispered. "Be that brave girl you've always been."
And Angel—finally—let herself collapse. Dera caught her. Held her. Let her cry until her sobs turned silent. She stroked her back, over and over, like she was trying to smooth out the damage of a hundred bad days.
Later that week, Angel went missing again. As always, none of the girls knew where she'd gone.
But Dera did.
She found her in the grotto, kneeling before the statue of the Virgin Mary cradling baby Jesus, her body shaking with muffled sobs.
All around, the garden was quiet. Still.
"There you are," Dera sighed. "I've been looking all over for you."
Angel quickly wiped her eyes, ashamed. Her face was red and swollen.
"You're here?" Angel asked hoarsely, surprised.
"Yes. To tell you to hide. That crazy house mistress was looking for you, again. But I guess you've already hidden well."
Angel let out a soft, humorless chuckle.
"Were you crying?"
She shook her head quickly.
"Then why are your eyes red?" Dera narrowed her gaze. "Come on. Sit."
Angel didn't argue.
"Nothing," she lied. "Just scratched them. You know how itchy my eyes get without those damn glasses."
"Oh, the glasses?" Dera smirked. "Also scratched your nose, too?"
Angel blinked, caught.
"You hate wearing glasses. You've lost like four. The ones you actually own now are with me. Waiting for you to go home. And you don't even scratch your nose like that. So... you were crying, right?"
Angel sighed, defeated.
"You don't have to list them all out, you know," she mumbled.
Dera smiled. "I do. Just to remind you I know you better than you think."
Angel's lips quivered.
And then—just like before—she ended up crying on Dera's shoulders. Again.
Because when the world turned its back, Dera never did.
When Angel disappeared, Dera always found her.
When Angel was too tired to speak, Dera spoke for her.
She was her quiet knight. Her secret guard.
And Angel was hers.
Just like last time.
And just like the times that would come.