Morning light filtered through the blinds, pale and uncertain.
I ironed the wrinkles from my new uniform, every motion careful, like ritual. The fabric was crisp, the color sharp against my skin—a small, visible promise that I'd try to belong.
The campus thrummed with life. Laughter drifted through open corridors. Seniors called out to friends, freshmen moved in uncertain clusters, and the air smelled of rain and chalk dust.
I found my classroom—a sunlit space filled with new faces and nervous chatter.
Doja and Pearl weren't in my class. Neither was Anita. I took a seat by the window, clutching my notebook like a shield.
Mrs. Wilkins, our homeroom teacher, smiled warmly. "Let's start with introductions. Name, where you're from, and what you're looking forward to this year."
One by one, voices filled the room—Gia, funny and loud; Eleona, confident and already planning to join the debate club. Each introduction felt effortless, as if everyone had rehearsed belonging.
When it was my turn, I stood and forced a smile.
"My name is Amelia Reynolds. I'm from Texas. I'm just hoping to make the best of this new start—with God's help."
A few heads nodded politely. My voice sounded small, almost swallowed by the air. I sat down quickly, cheeks warm.
Then, from the back of the room, a boy stood.
He didn't look nervous—just distant. His uniform sleeves hung a little too long; his hands stayed buried in his pockets.
"Kamen," he said simply. "From here. I guess I'm just looking forward to finishing the year."
His tone was quiet but steady—detached, like someone who'd already seen too much. The class moved on, but I found myself glancing toward him, curious.
There was something about the way he looked out the window, as if he was searching for something no one else could see.
While others laughed and whispered, Kamen stayed still—untouched by the excitement that filled the room.
By lunchtime, his name lingered in my thoughts like a half-finished prayer. I hadn't spoken to him—didn't even plan to—but something in his calm, unreadable silence unsettled me.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd find the courage to say hello.
Maybe courage wasn't just faith—maybe it was curiosity, too.