The days were shifting now. Slower. Warmer. Less cruel.
Purity no longer waited for something bad to happen. That weight the one she carried in her shoulders and under her ribs it hadn't left, but it was getting quieter. Like a storm deciding whether or not to pass.
The art studio was alive with sound soft brush strokes, the faint hum of fans spinning above, and quiet chatter from students lost in color. Purity sat by the window, her easel tilted slightly, sunlight slicing through the blinds and warming her face.
She wasn't painting pain this time.
Her strokes were slow but sure, blending soft blues into yellows, like a morning sky pushing out a long, heavy night. There was still weight in her chest, yes....but it wasn't choking her. It was more like something she'd grown strong enough to carry without dragging it behind her.
POV: Sometimes healing doesn't roar. Sometimes it's the brush gliding in silence.
A teacher passed behind her, nodding in approval. Anna, three stools away, gave her a wink and mouthed, "You're doing it." Purity smiled faintly. Just faintly. But it was real.
She was getting small wins competitions, comments, confidence. It wasn't a full transformation yet, but it was the beginning of something. Something with color, with movement. With her name on it.
Her days at school started to feel like they belonged to her. Not to fear. Not to survival. Just her.
Painting was no longer just therapy. It was her language.
Each stroke said the things she still couldn't.
That Friday, the art teacher pinned up the list.
Inter-School Art Showcase Finalists.
Three names.
And hers was one of them.
For a moment, her body didn't register it. She stood frozen, eyes wide.
Anna screamed behind her and tackled her in a hug.
Purity! You made it! You freaking made it!
I... She couldn't even form the words. I didn't think I would.
Why not? You're made for this. You just forgot it for a while.
Her laugh came out choked like it didn't know how to be free yet. But it came.
POV: The world may have tried to silence you, but your talent remembers your voice.
That night at home, she sat by the window again, only this time there were no shadows in the corners. Just the scent of the paper she kept sketching on.
Her pencil didn't pause. Not even when she thought of Josh.
He still lived in the same house. Still passed her in the hallway. Still kept that forced politeness in his tone, like he was afraid of waking a ghost.
Purity didn't flinch anymore.
She didn't let herself shrink.
But the memories still lived somewhere beneath her skin.
Even though she didn't touch them tonight, she could feel them humming.
Tomorrow, she whispered in her head, I'll name you all. But not tonight.
She thought of her mum.
Would she have believed her?
Would she have hushed her the way she hushed things in the past?
The memory came slow. Her mother ironing clothes, young Purity trying to ask about the pain in her chest after a strange touch from a neighbor.
Her mother's voice cutting the air:
Stop talking nonsense. Do you want people to think you're loose?
The shame had come before the understanding.
Now, Purity knew.
It wasn't her fault.
POV: Some healing begins the moment you stop defending the silence that hurt you.
The next day, she sat in the school garden, painting under a half-shaded tree. A group of younger students passed by, watching her curiously.
One of them, a girl with shy eyes and big curls, stepped closer.
Are you the one that painted the girl with the cracked crown?
Purity looked up, surprised.
Yeah. That was me.
I liked it. She looked hurt. But powerful too.
Purity's lips curved gently.
Thanks. That's exactly how I felt when I painted her.
The girl smiled and ran off.
And in that small moment a passing compliment from a stranger Purity felt a piece of herself return.
Maybe she wasn't invisible anymore.
Maybe, just maybe, her story had started speaking not through her mouth, but through her colors.
Instead, she found herself wandering to the old bridge near the back of the school field the one barely anyone used. It was quiet. Safe. The kind of place that didn't ask questions.
She sat at the edge, sketchpad on her knees, pencil dancing gently.
She drew a girl standing barefoot in a river, her eyes shut, her body split in two one side wrapped in thorns, the other blooming with lilies.
It was her.
It had always been her.
She didn't need to label the pain anymore.
She didn't need to wrap it in metaphors just to make it less ugly.
She could hold it now not as something that defined her, but as something she survived.
POV: There's a kind of bravery in becoming whole again even when the world only knew you in pieces.
When she got home, she found Uncle Benny outside on the porch, watering plants. He gave her a gentle nod.
How was school today?
She smiled faintly.
Good. I made it to the finals of the showcase.
You see? he chuckled, I told you there's something special in those hands of yours.
She nodded, but didn't say more.
She was learning which parts of herself to share.
And which parts to protect.
Even in kindness, some people weren't meant to carry your truth.
Even in laughter, some silences should stay yours until you're ready.
That night, she opened her journal and wrote something new:
I don't hate him. I don't think I ever did.
But I won't make excuses for him anymore either.
She paused, then added underneath:
Survival is not shameful. Silence is not peace.
And my body
is not a battlefield.
She underlined those last words twice.
Then shut the book not to hide it, but to rest.
Tomorrow could come.
She'd be here waiting.