SPEAK

Chapter 11: Silent Struggles

The sun peeked through the heavy winter clouds, casting a pale glow over the school building. The halls were bustling with the usual pre-exam chatter. Students exchanged worried glances and last-minute notes, the tension of finals week which was two weeks away was palpable in the air. I walked through the front doors, feeling the familiar weight of my backpack and the heavier weight of my thoughts.

That night played over and over in my mind, a loop I couldn't break. Mom's drunken ramblings, the way she clung to me, begging for answers I couldn't give. My silent screams echoed in my head.

The weekend wasn't a fun one.

I hadn't slept much, and my steps felt heavy as I made my way to my locker. The noise around me was a distant hum, my focus on the simple tasks: open the locker, grab the books, and keep moving. I glanced around, half-expecting to see Xavier. The memory of his hand in mine, so steady and sure, made my heart race. Could I face him today?

I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus. One step at a time, I told myself. Just get through the day. The faces of my classmates blurred together as I walked to my first class. The classroom door loomed ahead, another threshold to cross. I paused for a moment, steadying myself. Then, with a final deep breath, I stepped inside, ready to face whatever came my way.

I came in thirty minutes late, like every other day.

Since it was English Literature, I could focus—well, sort of. I managed to stay with it for a while, at least. When the class ended, I headed to the infirmary to pick up my pills. You might be wondering why a seventeen-year-old can't keep her medication. Well, six years ago, the school had a major drug problem and implemented a rule that all students' medications had to be stored in the infirmary. Not that it stopped Wynn from selling drugs in the boys' bathroom exactly three minutes after the fourth period. How did I know? Let's just say anxiety makes you hyper-observant; every little detail matters.

I regretted my trip to the infirmary almost instantly as I stepped out.

"Asha! Asha!" Shit, it was the school counselor. Mrs. ... What was her name again? "Where were you on Friday?" she asked. I turned around, pushing my hair back from my face. She had curly short black hair with streaks of brown and wore rectangular black glasses that made me instinctively adjust my glasses. Her multicolored vest, the same one she wore last Tuesday, was a sensory overload, making my brain try to focus on every color at once—headache central.

"You probably forgot," she continued. Yeah, yeah, every Friday, her office—I forgot. I didn't nod or show any sign of agreement.

"I'd like to see you today. Come straight after lunch, okay?" she said, touching my shoulder before walking away. I hated that she saw me as a toy that needed fixing. I knew I needed fixing; I just hated that other people knew it too.

During lunch break, I went to the library, just because. I go to the library every lunch break; I either read at the same table, far away from other people, or I just sit there, staring into space until the bell rings. Today, my eyes were closed, and when I opened them after a long while, I blinked as I saw the girl with raven-black hair looking at me intensely, I remembered that she might have seen me cry the last time we had met and my cheeks flushed instantly. I glanced at her chest and saw a badge that identified her as a library assistant, "Liora Blackwood," written boldly. Then I looked back up to her eyes. She was carrying a pile of books that looked too heavy for her.

"Hi there!" she said with a smile. "I didn't mean to startle you!" She walked closer to the bookshelf, and my eyes followed her. "No worries, I won't bother you for long. I just need to put these back," she muttered as she placed the books on the shelves one by one. Should I help? I wondered, but I didn't move an inch.