[Next Morning]
The sun emerged softly, as if reluctant to disrupt the world.
On the opposite side of town, Angela stirred in her tiny room, her ears softly ringing and her heart feeling slightly heavier than the day before.
At School
Angela leaned against the classroom window, holding her notebook tight against her chest.
She had arrived early not out of excitement, but because she had hardly slept. Her mother had screamed late into the night at no one in particular, the bitter edge of alcohol staining every word. Angela had tried to shield her ears, but it made no difference. Even with one ear half-deaf, she still felt the anger like distant thunder.
Now, she stood in her school uniform, dark rings under her eyes, her shoes still dirty from another long walk. She hadn't eaten. There was nothing in the house anyway.
"Angela!" Gabriel called from the doorway, tossing his bag onto a desk. "You're early."
She nodded, too tired to speak.
He came and stood beside her. "Rough night?"
She didn't answer right away. Then, softly: "Yeah."
Gabriel didn't press. He just sat next to her, quiet and steady.
A few minutes later, their homeroom teacher entered but he wasn't alone. A woman none of them recognized followed behind him. She wore a bright blouse, her braids neatly styled, and she carried a black leather portfolio.
"Students, this is Miss Eniola," the teacher announced. "She'll be with us for a while, observing and supporting. She's a guidance counselor."
A few students groaned. Others exchanged puzzled looks.
A therapist?
Angela's stomach tightened. She didn't like adults who asked too many questions. They often made promises they couldn't keep.
Miss Eniola smiled warmly. "Good morning, everyone. I'm not here to punish or spy on you. I'm just here to listen, if you ever want to talk. No pressure. No judgment."
Angela looked away, pretending not to care.
But something in the woman's tone was different—gentle, steady, natural.
After class, Miss Eniola stood by the door, greeting students as they left.
As Angela walked past, the woman gave her a small smile.
"Angela, right?"
Angela nodded.
"I really admire your handwriting," she said. "Today's notes were so neat."
Angela blinked. No teacher had ever mentioned her notes before—except for Gabriel, and maybe once, her brother.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"If you ever feel like talking," Miss Eniola added, "my door's always open."
Angela said nothing. But something shifted in her chest, a flicker, faint and unfamiliar.
During break, Angela and Gabriel sat again by the school field. The heat shimmered above the asphalt, and the shrieks of children echoed around them.
"What do you think of the new lady?" Gabriel asked, munching on a cookie.
Angela shrugged. "Probably like all the others."
"You think so?"
She nodded. "They all say they care. Then they forget you."
Gabriel was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: "Would it be so bad to give her a chance?"
Angela looked at him, thoughtful. "Trying is what hurts the most."
That evening, when she returned home, the house was darker than usual. No electricity.
Her mother was passed out on the sofa, a half-empty bottle beside her.
Angela walked past quietly and went to her room, her notebook in hand.
She sat on the bed, turned to a fresh page, and began to write:
Today, someone smiled at me like they actually meant it.
Not the kind of smile people wear when they feel sorry.
But like I'm a person. Like I exist.
It was small. But I noticed it.
Is that what hope feels like?
She closed the notebook slowly and held it to her chest.
She didn't believe in miracles.
But maybe… maybe she could believe in moments.