Airam didn't remember how she got home.
Her legs moved, her eyes stung, her chest ached, everything felt like it was happening underwater. The celebration noise had died down and was replaced by whispers behind her as she walked through the street.
The girl who slapped Harry Johnson.
The girl whose heartbreak everyone had witnessed.
As soon as she reached her gate, her strength evaporated. She closed the door behind her, leaned her back against it, and slid down to the floor.
Her whole body began shaking. The first tear slipped out.
Then the next.
Then the dam broke.
Airam covered her mouth to keep from screaming, but her sob was already tearing through her chest. She didn't cry pretty, she cried like someone whose soul had been ripped open. The kind of cry that didn't sound human.
She hugged her knees, forehead pressed to them, repeating in broken whispers,
"I trusted you… I trusted you…"
Her mind replayed everything,
his laugh
his soft voice
the kiss
the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world
His notebook is always near him
The questions he asked
the way he "listened."
the way he pretended to be one of them
Pretended.
Airam stood, shaking, and stumbled to her mirror.
Her face was swollen, red, and unrecognizable.
"Was I stupid?" she whispered.
"Was all of it just research?"
A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to hold onto the dresser.
Just then, the door burst open, Laila and Jane, breathless, worried, ran home after hearing what people were saying outside.
They froze when they saw her.
"Airam…" Jane whispered.
But Airam shook her head violently, stepping back.
"Don't touch me," she choked out.
"Please… just don't."
Her sisters stood helplessly.
Laila slowly sat beside her on the floor. "Whatever happened… whatever he did… you're not alone."
Airam covered her ears with both hands.
"I don't want to hear his name. I don't want… I don't want…"
She broke again, her shoulders collapsing under the weight.
~~~~~~~~~
Word spread faster than fire. By evening, everyone knew. The kids whispered in corners. Mothers gathered in circles. Men shook their heads, muttering.
Harry Johnson.
The genius. The legend. The boy from a rich family is pretending to be poor.
A car drove slowly down the street, his father's driver, coming for his things from the room.
People exchanged looks.
So it was true.
Inside Mama Esi's store, customers discussed it openly,
"Ei! So he was studying us like animals?"
"Herh! What kind of human being does that?"
"That girl… the way she walked out with her head high… she's strong, oh."
"And he didn't even deny it! Her slap, the book falling everywhere."
"You think he loved her?"
"Love? Someone like him? Hmm."
By nightfall, a crowd had formed at the corner, discussing what had happened.
Some were angry.
Some were disappointed.
Some were impressed that Airam had the courage to confront him publicly.
Jane stood by the window listening, fists clenched.
Inside, Airam lay curled on her bed, staring at nothing.
One sentence kept echoing in her mind:
Adaptive Coping Mechanisms Among Economically Disadvantaged Families: A Qualitative Immersion Study.
He had studied them.
Studied their struggles.
Studied her.
Studied her dreams, her tears, her scars
And turned them into paragraphs.
The heartbreak wasn't what hurt the most.
It was the humiliation.
The deep, shameful feeling of being used, he felt like a six-year-old again, feeling rejected by her own father. And the need to prove herself all over again became stronger than ever.
And somewhere across town…
Harry sat on the floor of Joe's apartment, silent, bleeding, shaking, unable to erase the look on her face.