The Assignment
It started with a writing assignment.
Her fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Rivera, handed out sheets of lined paper and asked the class to write about their "favorite memory."
Most kids groaned, scribbling about trips to the zoo or birthday parties. Layla sat frozen, pencil hovering. Favorite? What did that even mean when every memory she carried hurt?
Finally, she wrote about Jayden. Not by name — she was too scared to draw attention — but about the night they stacked soup cans like towers, the sound of his laugh, the way he promised he'd never let go.
Her pencil scratched fast, words spilling like they had been waiting to come out. By the time she stopped, her paper was nearly full.
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The Notice
A few days later, Ms. Rivera stopped her after class.
"Layla," she said, holding up the paper. "Can I talk to you?"
Layla's stomach dropped. Her first thought was: I'm in trouble.
But Ms. Rivera's face wasn't angry. It was gentle, curious.
"This was beautiful," she said. "The way you wrote about your brother — the details, the feelings… You have a gift."
Layla blinked, caught between fear and shock. No one had ever called her writing a gift before.
She shrugged, whispering, "It's just a story."
"No," Ms. Rivera said firmly. "It's your story. And you should keep telling it."
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The Spark
For the rest of the week, Layla couldn't stop thinking about those words.
A gift.
She wasn't just the quiet girl, the foster kid, the "easy one." Someone had seen something in her that wasn't broken, wasn't a problem — it was worth something.
That night, she added to her notebook:
Rule #6: Maybe I'm more than what they think I am.
She folded the page between her letters to Jayden, like she wanted him to know too.
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The Threat
But good things never lasted long.
During the next caseworker visit, Ms. Carter mentioned the paper. "Her teacher says she's… talented. In writing."
Ms. Waller smiled. "That's wonderful."
But Ms. Carter's voice turned sharp. "We don't encourage distractions here. She needs discipline, not fantasies."
Layla sat frozen on the couch, hands clenched in her lap.
She felt her hope shrink, threatened before it even had a chance to grow.
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The Secret
That night, she wrote another letter.
Dear Jayden,
Someone said I'm good at writing. I think you'd laugh at that. I wish I could show you. I wish I could write our story together. I'm going to keep writing, even if they tell me not to. Because if I stop, then maybe I'll disappear too.
She folded it and tucked it under the stack, her hands shaking but her heart steady.
For the first time in a long time, she felt something dangerous stirring inside her.
Not just sadness. Not just fear.
Defiance.