Grade 9 didn't start clean.
Nothing reset.
Nothing healed just because the calendar flipped.
After Grade 8 ended, I stepped straight into Class K, and school finally went back to face-to-face. People talked about how happy they were to be back, how it felt like life again. For me, school wasn't joy—it was refuge. It was the only place where my mind wasn't constantly bracing.
That year had happiness in it, but it also carried loss so heavy it bent my spine.
My dad got himself tangled in family trouble, and because of that we had to move. The day we left my grandaunt was the day something cracked in me. I loved her. I really did. I gave her hell sometimes, but she was my inspiration. She held me steady when everything else was chaos. I even promised her I would get rich one day. When I said it, she smiled—not the polite kind, but the real kind, like she saw something in me I hadn't even earned yet.
That smile stayed with me long after I left the house.
Red Hills Road didn't feel like home. It felt temporary, like a place you pass through with your guard up. My second older brother Jay came to live with us too—quiet, easy, brown-skinned like most of the family. I stood out without asking to. I took my dad's colour, his height, his presence. My mum was mixed—British, Indian, Jamaican—shorter, softer. My dad was tall, black, Canadian Jamaican. All of that mixed inside me, and somehow still felt unfinished.
I went back to school already tired.
What happened during the holidays followed me into the classroom. I couldn't let my face show it, so I covered it. I wore a black mask with a zip across the mouth. To everyone else it was style—Tokyo Ghoul vibes. To me, it was armor. When the zip curved upward, it looked like I was smiling. Nobody could tell I was breaking.
Second row. Corner seat. Always.
School opening helped me breathe again because home was different now. Darker. My mum had come back. They got married. I thought maybe that meant things would stabilize.
Instead, one afternoon shattered everything.
She was cooking and called me to help. Asked me to bring something using a professional name I didn't understand. I stood there confused. She got mad fast. Too fast. The slap came sharp against the back of my head, like a gunshot you don't hear coming.
My dad rushed in. He saw I didn't do anything. They argued. And then she said it.
Mistake.
That word didn't just hurt—it hollowed. When my dad said something reckless back in anger, something violent and stupid, my heart started racing so hard I thought it might tear itself free. My eyes stayed wide. My chest burned. Then I walked into my room and locked everything down.
From that point on, something in me shut off.
At school I wore a dark face. I felt like Job in the Bible—everything stripped away for reasons I didn't understand. I didn't socialize much. I lived in my phone. Music became confession. XXXTentacion sang the pain for me when my mouth wouldn't work.
Sashelle came back into my life as a friend. Ex-history, sister-energy, complicated. She made me laugh. Bentley rolled with me more, and somewhere between being quiet nerds and coping survivors, he became my brother.
Then Rhianna happened.
One afternoon, truth or dare spiraled into tension. A dare interrupted by an announcement. A moment unfinished. Later that day, she texted me. Casual words, dangerous intention. When she said Monday, early, I didn't sleep right for two nights.
Monday came, and when she grabbed my bag strap and pulled me toward her, everything else went quiet. The kiss wasn't a joke. It was deliberate. Soft enough to be permanent. We didn't even pretend after that—we were together.
I fell fast. Reckless fast.
We talked about everything. Future kids. Where we'd live. How we'd never leave each other. I made videos of her. She made me feel light. When I bought her a chain with my initial, my hands shook so bad I couldn't even clip it myself. People laughed. I didn't care. That shaking was love exposing itself.
But before the rumors, before the betrayal, before the heartbreak, there was a different crossing.
I had made her a promise. A serious one. I told her I wouldn't lose myself. I believed I could hold that line.
One day she asked me to follow her. I didn't hesitate. She brought out a chair, told me to sit. Looked at me like she already knew the ending. Asked if I'd done this before. I told the truth.
Her hands gripped my clothes. Tight. Warm. Pulling me toward something I didn't have language for yet. She whispered things that burned straight through my spine. My body responded before my faith did. Heat climbed fast. I tried to slow it down. Tried to talk. Tried to warn her.
She didn't let me.
Time collapsed into sensation—hands, breath, pressure, words. She held me like she meant it. Told me I felt good. Told me she loved it. My head went empty. I was drowning in closeness.
Afterward, I felt drained. Quiet. Changed. I didn't feel proud. I felt different—older and smaller at the same time. When my friend laughed later, saying I really did it, I laughed too. But inside, something had already cracked.
At the time, I thought it was just fun. I didn't know I had stepped into something spiritual without understanding the cost. I believed in God—but I didn't yet know His order.
Then came fear. Pregnancy talk. Panic. Loss. A miscarriage. A grief I wasn't ready to carry. I mourned something I never held and somehow still felt responsible for.
And then death visited again.
My grandaunty Bev passed.
I couldn't go to the funeral. I cried for days, apologizing into silence for the trouble I gave her, for leaving without being better, for promises left unfinished.
By report day, I stood second overall. Teachers praised me. My dad said he was proud. It wasn't loud, but it mattered. Miss Grant. Miss Samuels. They held me together without knowing they were saving my life.
Grade 9 took my innocence.
It took my certainty.
It took my safety.
What it didn't take was my future.
Grade 9 didn't arrive like a fresh page.
It came heavy, already written on, already bent at the corners.
After Grade 8 ended, I moved straight into Class K. School had finally returned to face-to-face, and everyone treated it like a resurrection. People smiled more. Laughed louder. Teachers talked about "new beginnings." But for me, there was no reset button. Life didn't work like that.
That year carried happiness in one hand and grief in the other—and neither let go.
Before school even reopened properly, everything shifted at home. My dad got himself into family trouble, and because of that, we had to move. Leaving my grandaunty's house felt like someone tearing a root out of my chest. I loved her deeply, even when I tested her patience. She was my grounding point. My example. The quiet proof that stability could exist.
I once promised her I'd get rich one day. Not as a joke. Not as a flex. As a vow. When I said it, she smiled at me—a smile that wasn't loud, just knowing. Like she could already see a future version of me standing taller than I was. That image stayed with me long after we walked away.
Red Hills Road felt unfamiliar, unfinished. Like a house you sleep in but don't dream inside. My second older brother Jay came to stay with us too. He was quiet, easygoing, the kind of person who didn't need to speak to be understood. Brown-skinned like most of my family. I stood out without trying. I took my dad's colour, his height, his presence. My mum was mixed—British, Indian, Jamaican—shorter, softer. My dad stood tall at 6'1, black, Canadian Jamaican. All of that blood ran through me, and still I felt incomplete.
School reopened, but I didn't.
What happened during the holidays clung to me like smoke. I couldn't let my face reveal it, so I hid it. I wore a black mask with a zip across the mouth—Tokyo Ghoul style. To everyone else it was fashion. To me, it was armor. The curve of the zip made it look like I was smiling. No one questioned it. No one asked what was underneath.
Second row. Far corner. Every day.
Being back at school helped me breathe. Home had grown tense, unpredictable. My mum had returned. They got married. I thought maybe that meant balance. Instead, it meant silence punctured by explosions.
One afternoon she was cooking and asked me to help. Told me to fetch something using a professional cooking term I didn't understand. I froze, unsure. Her frustration lit instantly. Before I could explain, her hand struck the back of my head—sharp, humiliating, sudden.
My dad rushed in. He saw it wasn't my fault. They argued. Voices rose. And then she said it.
That word.
Mistake.
It didn't just wound me—it erased me. When my dad snapped back something reckless, something violent out of anger, everything inside me accelerated. My heart slammed against my ribs. My vision tunneled. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I walked into my room and closed the door carefully, like if I did it too loudly, I might fall apart.
From that moment on, something went cold in me.
At school my face stayed dark. Still. Controlled. I felt like Job from the Bible—everything stripped away, faith tested without explanation. I stopped socializing. I hid inside my phone. Music became my confession booth. XXXTentacion said the words I didn't know how to form.
Sashelle came back into my life, not as a lover this time but as a companion. An ex, a friend, something-between. She made me laugh when it felt illegal to do so. Bentley stayed close. Somewhere between shared silence and shared dreams, he stopped being "my friend" and became my brother.
Then Rhianna re-entered the frame.
It started small—truth or dare, laughter, teasing. Then a dare that never finished because of a school announcement. An unfinished moment has power. Later, she messaged me. Casual words. Dangerous undertone. When she said "Monday, early," I didn't sleep properly for two nights.
Monday arrived cold and quick.
When she grabbed my bag strap and pulled me toward her, the world quieted. Her lips were soft, intentional. That kiss wasn't a joke. It wasn't peer pressure. It was chosen. After that, pretending was pointless. We were together.
I fell too fast and I didn't even try to brake.
We talked about everything—future kids, places we'd live, promises we swore we'd keep. I made videos of her just existing. She made me feel lighter, like the future might actually want me. When I bought her a chain with my initial, my hands shook so badly I couldn't clip it myself. People laughed. She smiled. That shaking wasn't fear—it was love exposing itself.
Before the arguments. Before the rumors. Before everything fell apart—there was a line I swore I wouldn't cross.
I made her that promise. I meant it.
One day she asked me to follow her. I did without thinking. She pulled out a chair, told me to sit. Looked at me like she already knew how this chapter would end. Asked if I'd done anything like this before. I answered honestly.
Her hands gripped my clothes firmly, warmth bleeding through fabric and doubt. She pulled closer. Whispered things that sent heat straight up my spine. My body responded before my convictions could speak. I tried slowing it down. Tried warning her. Tried remembering God.
She didn't stop.
Time blurred. Sensation took over. Her grip tightened. Her words grew softer, heavier. She told me I felt good. Told me she liked how close we were. I was drowning in closeness, breath shallow, sweat rising, faith quiet.
Afterward I felt emptied out. Calm. Older. Smaller. When my friend laughed later, saying I really did it, I laughed too—but it sounded false even to me.
At the time, I told myself it was just life. Just fun. I didn't yet know I'd stepped into something spiritual without understanding the cost. I believed in God, but I didn't yet know His order.
Then fear came.
Pregnancy. Panic. Sleepless nights. Plans whispered in desperation. And then loss—a miscarriage. A grief I wasn't prepared for. I mourned something I never held and somehow still felt responsible for.
And then death visited again.
My grandaunt Bev passed away.
I couldn't attend her funeral. I cried for days, apologizing into silence for the trouble I caused her, for the promises unfinished, for leaving without becoming who I said I would.
By report day, I placed second overall. Teachers praised me. My dad said he was proud—quietly, but enough. Miss Grant. Miss Samuels. They held me together without knowing they were keeping me alive.
Grade 9 took my innocence.
It took my certainty.
It took my safety.
But it didn't take my future.