I used to sit alone in the last row of the class, at the edge of the room. The sunlight never quite reached that corner; it was dim, dusty, and smelled musky. My uniform was always a little wrinkled, sometimes the same one from yesterday. No one said anything, but I knew they noticed the subtle differences between their freshly washed clothes. The teachers, too. They'd look at me like I was a smudge on a clean sheet of white paper.
You didn't, though.
You'd always smile and greet me, when no-one else did. I still remember the time you'd given me answers to a quiz. How we used to compete against each other to solve math problems. You'd wave goodbye to me, like we were actually friends. Once, you even gave me your water bottle because I'd forgotten mine. You didn't make it a big deal. You just said, "Here, take this!~ " and went back to your seat.
I still think about those days some nights. How kindness can feel like a ray of sunshine to someone who's been living in the dark their entire life.
Home was worse.
The first thing I'd notice was the smell. Stale smoke and cheap alcohol. My father always drank after work, muttering about the world being unfair. My mother stayed quiet, except when she didn't. Then the shouting started. I used to eat standing with my small plate in the balcony. I used to stare at the fungus or various flowers blooming on the plants. They used to distract me from the hands being thrown in the background, followed by guttural whimpering, even pleading at times.
Once, when I spilled a little curry on the floor, my father's belt came off so fast I didn't even have time to flinch. The first hit didn't hurt. Not really. It was the second that jolted me, and I finally felt a yelp of pain. By the third, I braced myself not to cry. Crying made him angrier.
Afterwards, I'd lie in bed and stare at the ceiling fan, watching it spin, pretending the noise drowned everything else out. I used to imagine it falling on me while I slept. A messy yet quiet end.
But I still got up every morning. Still ironed that same wrinkled shirt. Still went to school. Because you were there. And that was enough.
You'd talk about movies, games, dumb things that didn't matter. But the way you talked made them feel like they did. You were funny. You were kind. You were everything the world wasn't.
I never told you any of this, of course. I just listened. Smiled sometimes, when you weren't looking.
Then came that day. The last week of school. The air smelled of rain and chalk dust. Everyone was signing each other's notebooks, promising to keep in touch. I'd been rehearsing for days, what to say, how to fix my posture, how not to shake.
We were by the water taps behind the building. I remember how the paint peeled off the wall, how the pipes leaked a little, how I could hear my own heartbeat. I asked you out. Awkwardly, my voice barely above a whisper.
You blinked, surprised, then smiled that same warm smile and said, "You're great, but… I don't think of you that way."
That way.
It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. But it did. Something inside me shattered quietly.
That night, my father came home drunk again. He yelled about the electricity bill, about how useless I was, about how I was just like my mother. I said something back. I don't even remember what and he hit me again. My mother just stood there, staring soullessly at me.
After that, I stopped talking. To them. To anyone.
And then the world broke out into a complete mess.
It started as a protest. Then came the riots. Cities burned. The government called it "civil unrest.". The news showed images of soldiers marching through neighbour-hoods, people dragging luggage through smoke.
Colleges shut down. Power went out. I remember walking through the streets, seeing shops smashed open, cars burning, people running. The world looked exactly how I'd always felt inside.
I didn't have anywhere to go. I didn't have anyone to wait for me. So when the recruiters came, I signed up. No hesitation. They said it was for enforcing peace. I knew better. I just wanted something to aim at.
The army gave me will. A reason to wake up. The yelling felt familiar. The punishments, the drills all of it reminded me of home. But this time, I was the one holding the gun.
The first time I fired a gun, I felt euphoric. All I could imagine is how your face would look like once I'd be done with it.
Sometimes, at night, I'd think about school again. About you. About how different my life might've been if you'd said yes that day. Maybe I would've gone to college with you, sat beside you in the library, complained about assignments. Maybe I would've laughed again.
But you said no.
And that one word became the only thing that echoed through all the noise, through every explosion, every scream. No.
It made me sharper. Harder. Colder. I told myself feelings were useless. Love was a source of weakness. I buried the girl who once waited for her bus while you watched from the gate.
And now here we are. You sitting in the backseat of my car. I smile meekly as we pass through checkpoints, the dust and rubble slowly giving way to the Army Base. Your gaze darts around the compound, wide with panic. You probably expect a cell, an interrogation, or an execution, even.
But I drive us past the barracks, past the motor pool, all the way to a small, isolated block of buildings. I cut the engine and turn to you, a cold, empty smile playing on my lips.
We're home~
You look different now. Older. Scared. But it's still you.
I could save you. I could let you go. But I won't.
Because the girl you knew died that day.
What's left is something else. Something built out of pain, silence and frustration.
And she doesn't believe in kindness anymore.