Chapter 1: The Weight of Silence
The bus brakes at every corner with a screech that pierces my eardrums. It's six-thirty in the morning, and my headphones are already on, even though nothing is playing. It's my way of telling the world I'm unavailable.
I rest my forehead against the window. The glass is cold and slightly greasy, like everything in this city. Outside, the same faces parade by: the kiosk guy opening his metal shutter, the woman sweeping the sidewalk as if that could clean anything more than the grime, the elementary school kids dragging backpacks bigger than they are.
Everyone is acting out their roles in a play no one chose.
I close my eyes. I think about school. About the five hours ahead of me, sitting at a scratched desk, copying things I don't care about for a future I can't manage to imagine. I think about returning home, where my mom will already be asleep after her night shift, and my sister Lucía will be glued to her phone, pretending everything is fine.
I think about how every day is a slightly worse version of the last.
The bus pulls up to my stop. I get off without hurrying. There's no point in running when you don't want to arrive.
The school smells of dampness and cheap disinfectant. The halls are full of people yelling, pushing, laughing at jokes I've heard a thousand times. I walk pressed against the wall, as always. It's easier that way: fewer chances of someone seeing you, fewer chances of having to pretend.
I enter the classroom. My spot is next to the back window, the one with the cracked pane since last year when Tincho threw a pen at Maxi and missed. I like that spot. I can see a sliver of sky between the power lines. Sometimes, if I concentrate enough, I can imagine I'm somewhere else.
I sit down. I take out my notebook, though I know I won't use it. The History teacher walks in, talking about something—the French Revolution, I think—but her voice turns into white noise. I start to draw in the margin of the notebook: a clock without hands. A cage made of books. A person screaming but without a mouth.
"Alex," the teacher's voice cuts the air like a knife. "Would you like to share what you're working on?"
I look up. Thirty pairs of eyes fix on me. Some curious, most just hoping something interesting will happen on this shitty morning.
"I'm drawing so I don't fall asleep," I say.
Laughter. The teacher makes a gesture with her hand, as if to say, "suit yourself," and continues her lesson.
I go back to the drawing. And then I feel a light tap on my shoulder.
I turn around. It's a girl who sits two rows back. Black hair, badly cut, like she'd done it herself. Dark circles under her eyes. A gray hoodie three sizes too big. I'd never paid attention to her before, but now she's handing me her notebook.
I read what she wrote: "Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped in an aquarium and everyone is looking at me, but no one sees me."
I look at her. She holds my gaze for a second—just one—and then looks down.
I tear a sheet from my notebook. I draw a half-open door. I pass it to her.
I don't know why I do it. I'm not the type to respond, to get involved. But something in that sentence, in the way it was written—with so much force it almost tore the paper—reached me.
She puts the sheet away without opening it. The bell rings.
Everyone rushes out, like temporarily freed prisoners. I stay seated, slowly packing my things. When I turn to leave, she is still there, looking at my drawing.
"Thank you," she says, so quietly I barely hear her.
And she leaves.
I don't know her name. But something tells me that's about to change.