The morning sky looked bruised — grey clouds rolled over the sun like tired eyelids, dimming the world in a slow, aching hush.
It was the kind of morning you forget until it becomes unforgettable.
School felt different. Too quiet, too clean. The teachers spoke like machines, the bell rang sharper, and every step I took down the corridor felt like it was leading somewhere final.
Today was the day everything would start to shift.
Not in a loud, earth-shattering way.
But like how a hairline crack begins in glass.
Anika didn't come to class after lunch.
I knew this was the moment — the one I hadn't understood back then. She would vanish for the rest of the day. She wouldn't answer texts. Her face wouldn't show up again until next week, eyes tired, sleeves longer than usual, silence clinging to her like wet cloth.
Back then, I hadn't asked.
Today, I stood from my desk.
"I need to go to the nurse," I lied to the teacher.
He didn't even look up.
I found her on the back stairs behind the music room, knees drawn up, head tucked down into her arms.
She didn't look surprised to see me.
"You're not supposed to be here," she murmured.
"I'm not supposed to be a lot of things," I replied, sitting beside her.
For a long while, we didn't talk.
The concrete under us was cold. The walls were scratched with old names and carved hearts. Somewhere, a student rehearsed violin in broken notes.
"You ever feel like you're breaking, but no one sees it?" she asked quietly.
I didn't answer right away.
Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out a crumpled napkin I'd kept since lunch.
I drew a quick sketch — a cracked teacup, holding water anyway.
"I do," I said. "But I'm trying to hold on better this time."
She looked at the drawing. Then at me. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked it away.
"Sometimes it's just too much," she whispered. "At home. In my head."
I nodded. "I know. But you don't have to carry it alone."
For the first time in that life — maybe in both — I saw her lower her guard.
Not all the way. Just enough to let some light in.
We walked back to class, late, quiet, but together.
No one noticed.
No one ever did.
But something had shifted.
The day that should've broken her passed… and she was still standing.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
But held.
And sometimes, that's the only kind of miracle we get.