Aylia's POV
By the time the final bell rang, I felt like I'd been holding my breath all day—and forgot how to let it go.
The sound echoed down the hallway, sharp and final, like permission to leave. My body reacted before my mind did. Shoulders loosening. Jaw unclenching. Not relief exactly—more like release from something I'd been bracing against since morning.
I didn't look for him.
I didn't look for anyone.
I moved through the hallways with my head down, steps measured, deliberate, like if I kept my pace steady nothing could knock me off balance. The strap of my bag cut into my shoulder, rough and familiar. I tightened my grip on it anyway. It felt safer to hold onto something solid. Something I could feel.
My locker door stuck when I tried to open it.
It always did when I was already tired.
I pulled harder than necessary, metal scraping, the sound sharp enough to turn a few heads nearby. I ignored them. Bent down. Reached inside.
That's when I noticed.
My notebook was gone.
Not misplaced. Not left behind.
Gone.
For a second, I just stared at the empty space where it should've been. Like my brain hadn't caught up yet. Then I saw what remained—loose papers shoved back carelessly, pages bent, margins scribbled over.
One word scrawled sideways in ink I didn't recognize.
I didn't read it twice. Once was enough.
My throat tightened, heat crawling up behind my eyes, but I didn't cry. Crying in hallways gives people permission. It turns pain into spectacle. I wouldn't give them that.
I shut the locker carefully. Quietly. Like nothing was wrong.
Like I wasn't suddenly aware of every sound around me. Lockers slamming. Laughter echoing too loudly. Voices dropping the second I passed.
Whispers followed me.
They always do now.
I didn't slow down.
The bus ride home was loud. Too loud.
Someone's music leaked tinny and distorted from cheap headphones. A group of kids in the back laughed too hard at something that probably wasn't that funny. Every bump in the road rattled through my bones.
I took the seat by the window and pressed my forehead lightly against the glass. It was cold. That helped.
The city blurred past—gray buildings, cracked sidewalks, the same corner store with the flickering sign. Familiar streets. Places that didn't care who I was or where I stood in someone else's hierarchy.
That helped too.
I counted stops. Breathed when I remembered to.
By the time I got off, my head felt heavy, like gravity had doubled.
Home smelled like onions and detergent when I walked in.
It was comforting in a way I didn't have words for.
Mom was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back loosely, a strand already slipping free near her cheek. She stirred with the same steady rhythm she always used, like cooking was something she trusted when nothing else felt certain.
Casey sat at the table with her laptop open, one earbud in, foot bouncing lightly against the chair rung.
"You're late," Mom said without turning around.
"Study group," I lied easily.
The lie slid out smooth. Too smooth.
Casey glanced up. Her eyes lingered on my face longer than necessary, like she was cataloging things I didn't want named.
"How was school?" she asked.
"Fine."
She hummed. "That's not an answer."
I dropped my bag by the door. It hit the floor with a dull thud. "It was just busy."
Mom turned then. Really looked at me. Her mouth softened first. Her eyes stayed sharp.
"You eat?" she asked.
"At lunch."
Another lie.
She didn't push. She never does—not directly. She learned a long time ago that pressing only makes me quieter.
"What time is your shift?" Casey asked, already knowing the answer.
"Four."
She winced. "Friday."
"Luxury crowd," Mom added. "They don't tip for effort. They tip for appearances."
"I know."
I always know.
I changed quickly—black slacks, white button-up, hair pulled back neatly. The uniform didn't leave room for mistakes. Or weakness. Everything had to be clean. Pressed. Controlled.
Before I left, Mom touched my arm. Just briefly. Warm. Grounding.
"Text when you're off."
"I will."
Outside, the air was cooler. Cleaner. I breathed it in slowly, letting it settle in my chest.
One foot in front of the other.
That's how you survive days like this.
The café was already buzzing when I arrived.
Polished marble counters gleamed under warm lighting. Gold-accented menus caught the eye. The smell of espresso hung thick in the air, rich and bitter-sweet, layered with sugar and butter from pastries that cost more than my hourly wage.
It was the kind of place people came to feel important. To linger over lunches they didn't need. To talk about deals and vacations like neither required effort.
I tied my apron. Stepped behind the counter. Smiled.
"Busy?" I asked Mira, who was already juggling two orders and a complaint from a man who looked offended by existence.
She laughed without humor. "You're about to find out."
She wasn't wrong.
Orders piled up fast. Espresso machines hissed nonstop. Someone sent back a sandwich because the greens weren't "vibrant enough." Someone else complained their cappuccino foam was uneven.
I kept moving.
Smile. Nod. Apologize. Repeat.
For a few hours, it worked.
Work always does that—it demands enough of you that your thoughts don't wander where they hurt. My hands remembered what to do even when my body begged for stillness. Muscle memory carried me when willpower thinned.
I focused on the rhythm. The routine. On the small wins. A thank-you. A rare genuine smile. A decent tip slipped quietly onto the tray.
Still, by the end of my shift, my legs trembled when I finally stopped moving.
Mira bumped my shoulder gently as we cleaned. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
She raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem like it."
I smiled. "Just tired."
She nodded, accepting it.
People usually do.
Home was quieter when I got back.
Casey was asleep on the couch, laptop closed but still warm to the touch. Mom had left a plate in the oven, wrapped carefully in foil.
I ate slowly, standing at the counter, the house ticking softly around me. Pipes shifting. The clock above the fridge marking time I didn't feel passing.
After, I went to my room.
The picture was still on my dresser.
Us.
From years ago. Dad in the middle, arm around Mom, smiling like the world hadn't taught him how to leave yet. Casey and I grinning like we believed things stayed if you loved them hard enough.
I picked it up.
"Today was hard," I whispered.
My voice sounded smaller in the quiet.
"At school, students look at me and judge me as if they know me. I try to keep m head high but sometimes it is hard. I have no one to talk to. I don't want to stress mom or Casey. I have no one to talk to, " I continued softly. "I wish you were here anyway. Just… to remind me to never give up."
I sat on the edge of my bed, holding the frame to my chest.
"I'm doing my best," I told him. "I really am."
The words felt fragile. Like they might shatter if I said them too loudly.
I lay back without changing, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion settled into my bones. Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.
It always did.
And weekends weren't rest—they were the cleaning job. Scrubbing offices that didn't know my name. Emptying trash for people who'd never look me in the eye.
Sometimes I wondered how much a person could carry before something slipped.
I closed my eyes.
Not because I was done thinking.
Because I needed the dark to hold me for a while.