Warning : Hate speech used.
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The school hall buzzed with music. Children moved in sync, their sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor.
At the edge of the hall, Jenny stood with the teacher, clutching a sheet of paper. It was a drawing of an anime character.
For an eight-year-old, it was beautiful, detailed and perfect, something no one could believe a six year old had drawn.
The teacher gave her a smile.
Jenny returned the smile, her lips curved in pride.
She returned to the group, taking her missing spot.
The music started again. Jenny raised her arms just as the others did, her movements catching up to theirs, her face glowing with quiet focus.
Time passed unnoticed, the sunlight shifting from golden to pale through the high windows.
The music stopped and the kids sat down against the wall, drinking water, some chatting.
"Sam and Jenny, come here." A teacher called.
They glanced at each other, and walked to her.
"We want you two to take part in second dance."
And like that Jenny and Sam were practicing for two performance which was to be held the same day.
---
Jenny is now nine. She sat with her classmates, chatting and laughing.
The afternoon light poured through the open windows, falling on the rows of wooden benches.
The chatter of students filled the 5th grade classroom — giggles, pens tapping, the rustle of notebooks.
And Sam — the girl with the neat bob and warm smile — had left the school.
The door opened with a soft creak.
"Good afternoon, ma'am!" the chorus rose, uneven and cheerful.
"Good afternoon," said the teacher, setting her books on the desk with a soft thump.
Jenny's eyes followed the teacher's movement, the way her shawl shifted when she leaned forward. Something about it felt steady. Safe.
Jenny stood. "Ma'am…"
"When will the captain announcement be held?"
The teacher glanced up, expression unreadable. "Not right now."
Jenny sat down.
"Have you all done your homework?" the teacher asked, scanning the class.
Half of them exchanged sheepish looks. Some trying to hide empty notebooks.
Only Eza and Jenny rose from their benches and walked to the teacher's desk, their copies in hand.
Eza handed her notebook with an easy confidence. Jenny placed hers on it.
As they turned to go back, Eza leaned close, her ponytail brushing Jenny's shoulder.
"You want to be friends with me?" she whispered.
Jenny blinked. "Yes. I'd love it." she smiled.
Eza smiled.
That was how it began.
They shared erasers. Whispers during lessons.
Eza's handwriting was bold and curving; Jenny's large but clean.
When the teacher wrote questions on the board, Eza would nudge her and whisper, "What is that part?"
Jenny stared at the word, eza showed.
"I don't know." Jenny replied.
When the bell rang for break, Eza caught Jenny's hand. "Let's go buy something."
They walked down the hallway together. Their shoes squeaked against the polished floor.
Jenny's hand felt warm in hers.
But halfway to the cafeteria, a tall girl stepped out of a classroom, 5th grade, section C.
Her uniform looked new. Her hair gleamed when she turned her head.
"Eza! I've been looking for you!" the girl called. Her voice sharp and strong.
Eza's hand immediately slipped free. Almost throwing Jenny's hand away.
"Oh, I didn't know you were back!" Eza said, her voice suddenly brighter, her laughter spilling easily into the space between them.
Jenny stood. Just stood.
She stood just a few steps away, watching Eza with a blank expression, two of them were chatting as if Jenny wasn't there with them— the way Eza tilted her head, the way her body leaned toward the other girl.
She waited. Just for a moment.
Then she left, walking ahead, leaving Eza and that tall girl talking. Her footsteps were soft, against the floor.
In the cafeteria, Jenny balanced her tray carefully — a little too carefully. The smell of warm bread and juice mixed with the sharp scent of disinfectant.
Around her, groups of girls laughed, their voices weaving together in overlapping waves.
She found an empty table near the wall. Sat down.
And then — Eza appeared.
"Hey," Eza said lightly, reaching over to fix Jenny's collar. Her fingers brushed away a tiny crumb.
"You should always keep your clothes neat."
Jenny startled looked up at her, then smiled. "Thank you. I will keep my unif—"
But Eza was already waving to someone else.
Jenny looked at her plate. The spoon clinked softly against it.
---
Back at Jenny's house.
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. The light in the room on. The night outside dark and unknown.
Jenny stood before the mirror, her reflection slightly blurred by a smudge of dust on the glass. She gathered her hair, twisting it neatly into a ponytail, watching closely — too closely.
She tied the band once. Too loose.
She pulled it tighter. Now it hurt.
She opened her hair again. The strands slipped over her shoulders like a curtain falling. She combed through them with slow, deliberate strokes.
Then again, she tied it up.
Looked in the mirror, she tilted her head.
And noticed a few strands that fell out, framing her face unevenly.
She frowned, loosened it, tried again.
And again.
Each attempt felt heavier, slower. Her breathing grew shallow, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
She brushed her hair again. A single strand clung to her cheek; she brushed it away with irritation, her movements sharper this time.
She tied it once more. Pulled. Adjusted. The band slipped.
Jenny exhaled sharply.
She stared at her reflection again— and for a moment, she stopped trying.
The fan creaked above her, and in the stillness that followed, she simply stood there, watching herself.
The door creaked open.
Her mother entered the room, two women following her — neighbors maybe. They looked at Jenny, then exchanged glances that carried quiet judgment.
"Your daughter is acting like a bitch," one of the women said.
The words landed with a dull, invisible weight.
Jenny froze. Her hands stopped midair, still holding the brush.
Her mother said nothing. Not a defense. Not even surprise. Just silence.
Jenny lowered the brush slowly, placed it on the table, and walked out of the room. Her steps were small, and — almost soundless.
Behind her, the voices didn't stop.
"She may become a whore," one of them whispered, loud enough to be heard.
The air seemed to thicken. Jenny's shoulders tensed, her breath caught for a second, but she didn't turn back.
In the next room, she stood still for a long time, staring at the floor.