TAMARA'S POV
There's something about being chosen — not for a game, not for a group, but by someone.
Someone who looks at you and decides, you're it.
I don't know what this is, really.
It's not friendship — at least not the kind I've known before.
Maybe it's because no one has ever written me a letter like that.
Maybe it's because she made it feel like I mattered in a way words can't explain.
It's strange how a few sentences on a scented paper can sit on your chest like a heartbeat.
How it can make you think of someone even when they're not there.
I tell myself it's just the idea of having a best friend — someone who chose me.
But deep down, something feels different.
It's softer, heavier, and quieter all at once.
I don't know what to call it yet.
Maybe I don't want to.
Perhaps the letter will explain it better than I can.
I unfold it again, and my eyes fall on the first line —
Dear Tamara,
I know you're probably surprised by this letter — maybe even wondering why I didn't just say all this to your face.
I guess I just love writing. It helps me say what I feel better than speaking does.
We haven't known each other for long, yet somehow, it feels like you've been around for much longer.
There's a bond I want to build with you — something that feels like sisterhood.
I want us to be like sisters… best friends.
Someone I can laugh with, talk to about anything, or just sit beside without needing to fill the silence.
Someone who understands me even when I don't say much.
You don't have to say yes right away. You don't have to reply now.
Take your time, I'll be waiting.
From your loving deskmate 💌
I read the letter once.
Then twice.
Then thrice.
Then so many times that I could almost hear her voice behind every word.
My heart pounds like it's running a race I didn't sign up for.
Just then, Roxan bursts through the door, catching me off guard. I quickly shove the letter inside my locker before she notices. She playfully taps the back of my head.
"Roxan!!!" I yell.
She dashes off laughing.
I turn toward her, pretending to be serious.
"Just laugh! Something's coming for your return!"
She sticks out her tongue, stretches her lips wide, and pulls her ears forward with her fingers — that silly dog-rabbit face people make when they're trying to be funny.
I can't help but smile.
But when I turn back to my desk — there she is.
Savina.
Walking gracefully past me, her scent brushing the air, she sits down quietly.
Thank God she didn't see me reading that letter. I would've died from embarrassment. My cheeks would've burned, and goosebumps would've danced all over my body.
She doesn't say a word. Just opens her locker, takes out Blossoms of the Savannah, and starts reading — like I'm invisible again.
Wow. Not even a "hi"?
Her actions are a whole riddle. She writes one thing and does another.
Still, I find myself staring.
Her lashes lower, her fingers flip the pages softly, her hair falls slightly over her cheek.
She's too calm. Too beautiful.
And maybe that's why I can't look away.
Then she bites her lip — just lightly — like she's trying not to smile. Her eyes flicker toward me. For a second, our gazes meet.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, pretending to focus on the page, but I see it — that slight tremble.
Then she lifts her eyes.
For a moment, we just stare.
Her expression is unreadable — shy, warm, maybe curious.
She opens her mouth as if to speak… then stops.
A small smile appears, soft but quick, before she dives back into her book.
I let it go.
I don't say a word either.
Maybe I can't. Maybe something about this silence feels safer.
The class begins to fill up. Desks scrape, laughter hums through the air. And just as the noise settles, more voices echo from the doorway.
Three students step in — older, taller, dressed in white shirts and black ties. They stand at the front, the room falling quiet.
"Hi, Form 1E!" the tallest girl greets brightly.
"Hiiiiii!" we echo back.
"I'm Mary, from Form 4E," she says, smiling before glancing at the others.
"I'm Larry, from Form 4E," the shortest one adds.
"And I'm Ivy, also from 4E," the last girl says cheerfully.
Mary steps forward again. "We're from Guidance and Counselling, and we'll be your mentors."
I blink.
"Metars?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.
The class bursts into laughter.
"Mentors," Mary corrects me, chuckling. "We'll be coming every Saturday evening to talk to you — about school, life, and anything you might want to share."
Ivy jumps in, grinning. "And we'll also be playing games and having fun!"
The class murmurs in excitement.
Mary continues, "We were once like you — new, confused, unsure. Don't be afraid to talk to us. We're here to listen and help."
She pauses, scanning the room. "Any questions so far?"
I raise my hand slowly.
There's something about that word — mentor — that sticks in my mind.
When she nods for me to speak, I hesitate, then say,
"I thought mentors are people you look up to. Like… someone you want to be like. Is that the same thing?"
The class quiets.
Mary smiles.
The kind of smile that says she likes the question.
"Yes," she says softly. "A mentor is someone who guides you — but not because they're perfect. Because they've been where you are. You look up to them, but they also walk beside you."
"Oh, okay," I say, smiling at Mary.
"We've already been through the early school struggles — fitting in, studying, balancing function and discipline…"
Her words fade into the background as my eyes drift to the window. The class hums softly with restless whispers and chair legs scratching the floor.
School has been alright, honestly.
Tough, yes — waking up at 4 a.m. just to shower in the biting cold, going to bed when my bones already ache from the day.
But I've adapted. I always do.
The food, though… that's another story.
Githeri, beans, ugali, vegetables — all boiled, all bland. But what can I do? I eat, I survive.
Still, tonight feels different.
It's church night — our first real Christian Union service.
I'm Catholic, so this will be new.
In Catholic mass, we sing slow, sacred hymns. But here? They praise and worship — jumping, clapping, shouting, I guess.
I'm curious. I want to feel that kind of freedom in prayer.
I'm lost in my thoughts until something jolts me —
Savina's hand brushes mine.
Just a light touch, but it's enough to wake every nerve in my arm.
I didn't even realize my left hand was resting on her locker.
I pull it back quickly.
"See you next Saturday, Form 1E!" Mary's voice cuts through the hum of my heart.
The mentors wave goodbye, and the class echoes back.
Chairs scrape, feet shuffle, voices rise — everyone's heading to the hall for church.
Chairs balanced on heads, laughter echoing through the corridor.
But I'm still seated.
And so is she.
Roxan rushes to my side. "Tamara, let's go!"
Savina stands, her hands curling around her chair, ready to lift it.
I don't think — I just reach out and hold her hand.
"Stay," I whisper.
She freezes. For a moment, I think she'll refuse.
But she doesn't. She lowers her chair slowly and sits back down.
"I'll come later," I tell Roxan, forcing a smile. "Save us two seats, yeah?"
She nods and leaves, vanishing into the sea of noise outside.
And then it's quiet.
Just me and Savina.
The air between us thick with everything unsaid.
Now what?
Why did I tell her to stay?
What am I even supposed to say?
"Savina…" I finally whisper, my voice trembling with something I can't name.
She looks up, her eyes already shining.
I clear my throat, trying to find words, but she beats me to it.
"Sorry," she murmurs.
A single tear slips down her cheek.