If I close my eyes long enough, I can still see the exact moment I first laid eyes on Amanda. It was a crisp September morning outside Eastwood High School in Brooklyn, the kind of morning where the wind carried the scent of wet pavement, coffee from passing commuters, and the faint chatter of students who weren't quite ready for another school year. Back then, life felt simple. Back then, I didn't know that the girl with the quiet eyes and gentle smile would one day become the center of a story I would give anything to rewrite.
I was standing by the school gate, clutching my books to my chest, pretending to scroll through my phone even though the screen was cracked and barely lit. The first-day nerves had settled into my stomach like a stone, and I wondered if sophomore year would be any different from freshman year — awkward, loud, unpredictable, and exhausting.
That's when I saw her.
Amanda.
She stood a few feet away, looking slightly lost but not in a frantic way — more like she was gently trying to understand the world around her. She was tall, strikingly so, with long black hair that fell like a dark waterfall down her back. The sunlight caught it in a way that made it look softer than silk. She clutched a notebook to her chest, her eyes scanning the sea of faces with a mixture of hope and caution.
There was something about her — something quiet, something pure — that drew me in instantly. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She didn't hide behind makeup or loud fashion. She was just… Amanda. Natural. Soft. Unassuming. And even though she stood alone, she looked peaceful, like someone who carried her own world gently in her palms.
Without thinking, I walked toward her.
"Hi… I'm—"
She looked up, and her eyes — soft, warm, almost apologetic — met mine.
"I'm Amanda," she said before I could finish.
Her voice was calm, steady, but there was a shy edge to it, as though she wasn't used to introducing herself first.
"I'm really glad you said something," she added, lowering her gaze for a second. "I wasn't sure where to go. This place feels so… big."
I laughed softly. "Yeah… it kind of eats freshmen alive, but you'll get used to it."
She smiled. It wasn't the wide, toothy grin people flash to make a good impression. It was small, tender — the kind of smile that comes from a place of sincerity. From that moment, I knew I wanted to be her friend.
What I didn't know was how much I would come to need her.
Within the first month, Amanda and I became something people jokingly called "inseparable." I'd roll my eyes when teachers said it, but secretly, it made me proud. It felt good knowing someone like her chose to sit beside me every day.
We walked the hallways as a pair — the quiet, thoughtful Amanda and me, her slightly more outspoken shadow. She wasn't shy in an awkward way; she was quiet in an observant way. She listened more than she spoke. She noticed things most people ignored — a teacher's subtle tiredness, a classmate's forced smile, the janitor's limp. That was Amanda. She saw people.
Our classmates warmed up to her too, but not the way they warmed up to popular kids. They admired her from a distance. They said she'd make a great model because of her height and elegance, but Amanda always brushed it off. She said modeling was "just a dream she didn't mind dreaming." She never made a big deal out of her beauty. She carried it like a gift she didn't want to flaunt.
Sometimes, during lunch, we'd sit under the maple tree near the basketball court, eating sandwiches and making fun of the pigeons that always hovered around us.
"Why do they always stare at us like we owe them money?" I would joke.
Amanda would laugh — a soft bell-like sound — and toss a crumb at them. "Maybe we do. Maybe this is their land and we're just renting space."
"Wow. Deep."
She shrugged, her lips curving. "Life is deep."
And we'd laugh again.
Those were the days that built the foundation of everything we became — two girls sharing secrets, sandwiches, homework, and songs. Because yes, we sang. Almost every morning on the walk to school, we sang Kirk Franklin's "I Know That I Can Make It," sometimes harmonizing, sometimes laughing when one of us went off-key.
"No matter what may come my way," Amanda would sing, holding her books like a microphone,
"My life is in Your hands…"
"Off-key!" I'd tease.
"You're lying!" she'd laugh.
Brooklyn streets were our stage. The world was simple. The future felt bright. And somehow, I believed nothing could break the bond we were building.
I was wrong.
By senior year, life began to remind us that innocence has an expiration date.
Amanda's family situation worsened — her parents were hardworking but poor, her father doing construction jobs whenever they came, and her mother cleaning offices at night. Amanda, being the eldest of six children, carried responsibilities that girls our age shouldn't have to. She often skipped outings, never bought new clothes, and always insisted on sharing even when she had little.
Despite the hardships at home, she never let her siblings go without. She brought them joy, structure, hope. They adored her — especially little Samantha, who followed her everywhere like a tiny shadow, always grabbing Amanda's hand and saying, "Don't leave me."
Amanda never did. Not then.
Meanwhile, my family was stable. Not rich, not extravagant — but comfortable. My parents loved Amanda as though she were their own. They admired her humility, her gentleness, her upbringing. "You chose a good friend," my mother would say. And I would always reply: "I didn't choose Amanda. Amanda just… happened."
By the time graduation rolled around, Amanda and I both knew life was about to carry us in new directions. But we promised each other something — that no matter what paths we took, we would stay connected, stay close, stay sisters.
We hugged tightly on the last day of school, caps in hand, gowns fluttering in the wind.
"We made it," she whispered.
"We did."
"We'll always make it… right?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.
"Always," I said, believing every word.
If only I knew how fragile that "always" was. If only I knew the shadows waiting for her in the city beyond the school gates. Shadows shaped like a man. A man named Leo.
But back then, when we stood under the fading afternoon sun, smiling for photographs and waving goodbye to teachers who would soon forget our names, we had no idea how deeply the world would test us.
We thought the hardest thing was leaving high school behind.
We didn't know the real story — our story — hadn't even begun yet.
After graduation, Amanda and I took our first job together — at Sam's Corner Café, run by Mr. Sam, a warm-hearted man with a booming laugh and fatherly patience. He hired us instantly, saying, "Two best friends with bright eyes and polite mouths? You're my kind of employees."
The café became our second home. Mornings smelled of roasted coffee and bagels, afternoons buzzed with regular customers, and evenings hummed with the sound of cleaning machines and soft jazz from the speakers.
Amanda thrived there. She remembered every customer's order, knew how they liked their coffee, and always greeted them with a smile that made even the grumpiest New Yorker soften. Mr. Sam often joked that she brought good luck to his business.
I liked to think she brought light.
Those early months at the café were some of the happiest times in our young adult lives. We worked, we laughed, we dreamed. We talked about future apartments we'd rent, cities we'd travel to, people we'd become. Amanda wanted a simple life — safety, stability, a family she could nurture. She didn't crave fame or luxury. She just wanted peace.
If only peace was something she'd ever get to keep.
Because the day she met Leo was the day her life took a turn we couldn't undo.
But at the start — in the memory of those first years — Amanda was untouched by darkness. Untouched by fear. Untouched by the evil that would one day take her from us.
In those days, she was simply the girl with the quiet light.
The girl whose heart was too pure for this world.