The morning air was crisp with the sharpness of late summer, and Pretty stood on the front stoep with her hands buried deep in her blazer pockets. The scent of dew still clung to the blades of grass, and the distant rooster's crow sliced through the quiet of Nkantini like a memory. Everything around her seemed louder than usual — the creak of worn school shoes, the rhythmic sweep of a broom against concrete, the clang of metal pots from a neighbour's kitchen window. But inside her? Stillness. The kind of stillness that hums beneath your skin.
She hadn't spoken to Sphiwe since the pocketknife incident. Though the event had long passed, its echoes lingered through the school corridors, swirling in hushed whispers and loaded stares. Since then, Pretty had worn her black school socks almost every day — a silent surrender to rules she once mocked. Her white socks, once a soft rebellion, now stayed hidden in the back of her drawer, like a version of herself she didn't know how to bring back.
As she stepped into the schoolyard, Promise jogged up beside her, her hair bouncing with each step. "Did you hear what's happening in LO today?" she asked, catching her breath.
Pretty shook her head.
"Mr. Dube's making everyone present their 'Who Am I Becoming' reflections. In front of the whole class!"
Pretty's stomach clenched. That reflection wasn't a performance piece — it was her truth. And truth, when said out loud, had a way of becoming fragile.
In class, the walls felt closer than usual. Mr. Dube stood in front of the board, rolling a piece of chalk between his fingers. One by one, he called on students at random. Some stumbled through their readings, their voices thin with nerves. Others smirked and read too fast, treating it like another assignment to survive.
When Mr. Dube said, "Miss Mhlophe," Pretty's breath caught.
She rose slowly, the paper in her hand shaking slightly. Her eyes scanned the room before focusing on the words she had written in ink that had smudged slightly from her sweaty palms.
"I am becoming someone who listens more. I still laugh, but now I want to feel safe laughing. I want to breathe without shrinking. I want to say no without guilt. I want to be free."
Silence.
Then Mr. Dube nodded. "Thank you, Miss Mhlophe."
Sanelisiwe clapped softly. Then Namisa. Then more joined in. It wasn't loud, but it was full. Full of something real.
When the bell rang, Pretty packed her bag with trembling hands.
"You okay?" Promise asked, walking beside her.
"I guess," Pretty replied.
"That wasn't easy," Promise said. "But it mattered."
Break brought some relief. The girls gathered near the far fence, the metal bars warm under the sun. Sanelisiwe unzipped her lunch bag and offered mango slices from a blue container. They ate quietly, the air sticky with the sugar of ripe fruit.
Namisa licked juice off her fingers. "Do you think being brave makes you lonely?"
Pretty wiped her hands on her skirt. "Sometimes. But being silent can make you feel invisible."
Snothando rolled her eyes. "Yho. So basically, we're stuck between being labelled or being ghosts."
"Maybe," Promise said thoughtfully, "the trick is choosing the kind of discomfort that leads to freedom. Even if it hurts at first."
The mango container was nearly empty. The juice dripped between their fingers, a sticky sweetness paired with unspoken truths.
Pretty didn't speak again that break. She just watched the sunlight play between the grass and listened to the buzz of gossip and secrets that hovered around them.
That afternoon, Miss Mavimbela entered their Social Science class in a burst of energy — red lipstick perfect, heels tapping a firm rhythm. She wore a scarf around her neck that looked like fire and sunlight all at once.
"Today," she began, "we talk about identity. Not just what people call you, but what you say you are."
She clapped her hands once. "Group yourselves by birth months. January to March, April to June, and so on. Let's stir the pot a little."
Pretty found herself among the January–March group. To her surprise, Akhona was there too.
Akhona had always been quiet — not shy, just watchful. Her presence was soft, but something about her stayed with you. That day, she had two gold pins in her braids and the faintest shimmer on her cheekbones.
"I think we've been classmates for weeks and barely spoken," Akhona said.
"We're fixing that now," Pretty replied, smiling.
They sat on the floor cross-legged, chart paper and markers between them.
"Who do you think you are becoming?" Akhona asked, her voice low, honest.
Pretty leaned back on her hands. "Still trying to figure that out."
"You're brave," Akhona said.
"Not always," Pretty replied.
"But when you spoke last week — about girls being silenced — that stayed with me. No one ever says those things in class."
Pretty blinked. Her throat tightened. She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. Not yet.
They wrote, drew, and scribbled together. Between lines and coloured arrows, something else formed — not love, not yet. But something just as gentle.
Days passed. Akhona began to join Pretty and her friends during lunch breaks. She laughed with Snothando, helped Promise with hair ties, shared chips with Namisa, and quietly took notes beside Sanelisiwe during classes.
But there was something different about the way she looked at Pretty. Something more.
One day, as they walked to the tuckshop, their hands brushed. Not by accident.
Akhona's fingers found Pretty's, briefly. The touch lasted seconds. But it burned like a secret.
Pretty didn't say anything. Neither did Akhona. But the silence was electric.
By Friday, whispers had started. Students stared too long. Some laughed too softly.
In the girls' bathroom, Snothando cornered Pretty.
"You and Akhona. Are you...?"
Pretty blinked. "What?"
"Together."
"She's my friend."
"That's not what people are saying."
"Well, people say things all the time."
Snothando crossed her arms. "Just don't make us a target."
Pretty nodded, slowly. But her heart hurt.
That night, she opened her journal.
"Dear Diary,
I don't know what this is yet. But I know her presence feels like calm. Like safety.
Is that wrong?"
Monday morning arrived thick with clouds. Akhona walked in late, sat alone, and didn't meet Pretty's eyes.
During break, she was gone.
Pretty searched the courtyard, the stairwell, the back field.
Sanelisiwe approached. "She's with Ntobe and them now."
"Why?"
"She said she doesn't want trouble."
Pretty stared at the far fence, lips pressed tight.
She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But instead, she stood still.
Even when the ground beneath her felt like it was disappearing.