The morning bell rang with more weight than usual. It echoed across the schoolyard like a call to a war no one had agreed to fight. Pretty stood at the gate, her eyes scanning the groups scattered around Imbeka Secondary. It was just another Monday to most, but not to her.
Akhona wasn't by the tree. Not even near the fence. Instead, she sat with Ntobe and Nolwazi, laughing without sound, her eyes avoiding everything.
Pretty forced her feet forward. Promise and Sanelisiwe were at their usual spot, but the silence that hovered was no longer comfortable.
"She didn't even say hi," Sanelisiwe whispered, tracing her finger on the rusted fence.
"She looked straight through me," Pretty said, her voice low and sore.
Promise tried to smile. "Maybe she's confused."
"Or maybe she's ashamed," Pretty replied, bitterness creeping into her tone.
No one answered. A few birds landed nearby and then quickly took off again, like even they didn't want to stay in that heavy air.
English period was first. Miss Mthembu was her usual dramatic self, but today her lipstick was brighter, and her tone more sarcastic. They were reviewing poetry, but it felt more like a courtroom than a classroom.
"Poems," she declared, striding across the front of the room, "are like people. Some are bold. Some are soft. Some pretend to be something they're not."
Her eyes scanned the room. Landed. Stayed.
"Especially the ones who play pretend in daylight but cry in the dark."
Some students snickered. Pretty didn't flinch. But the words stuck like burs under her skin. They crawled.
Promise glanced her way, brows furrowed.
Was it aimed at her? Or at Akhona? Or both? Either way, the damage was done.
The poem they analysed was titled Whispers in Hiding. Pretty didn't need the metaphor explained. She was living it. Her whole body felt like it had become a whisper.
During break, things were worse.
Snothando arrived late to the group, holding a half-eaten vetkoek and two polony slices. She didn't greet Pretty. Only spoke to Namisa.
"Apparently," she said loudly, "some people can't handle being normal."
Namisa blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing," Snothando said, biting into her food. "Just saying, some of us are fine being girls who like boys. Like, what's wrong with that?"
Pretty stood, but Promise touched her wrist gently.
"Not worth it," she whispered.
But the sting remained. The group sat in heavy silence until the bell rang. Something sacred had been broken.
Natural Science with Ma'am Msomi brought no comfort. Akhona didn't look her way once. During the practical lesson, she partnered with Nolwazi. Their heads leaned close, whispering and giggling, as if Pretty was a memory they were trying to forget.
She felt a cold rise in her chest. Like winter had walked into her bones.
Ma'am Msomi asked a question about respiration. Pretty didn't hear it.
"Miss Mhlophe?" the teacher repeated.
Pretty looked up. "Sorry, ma'am. I don't know."
Whispers. Laughter. Even Ma'am Msomi sighed. "Focus, please."
Focus? When her entire world was cracking?
That afternoon, she walked home alone. Even Sanelisiwe had gone ahead. Pretty dragged her feet along the gravel path. Each stone felt like a memory. Each corner held a face she didn't want to see. Her shadow felt heavier than her bag.
At home, her aunt was peeling potatoes, humming faintly.
"You're quiet," she said.
Pretty shrugged. "I'm just tired."
Her aunt didn't push. She nodded and passed her a peeled potato.
Later, in her room, Pretty opened her journal.
"Dear Diary,
They don't ask. They just assume. That I'm broken. That I'm confused. That I want attention. But the truth is... I just wanted to feel seen. Akhona made me feel real. And now she's gone, and I'm the only one bleeding.
Is it wrong to want softness?
Is it wrong to love differently?
If it is... then maybe I am wrong.
But I can't lie about it anymore."
She closed the book slowly. Not with a slam. But like closing a wound.
Tuesday brought no healing. The whispers had grown into full rumours. A piece of folded paper was passed around class. It had drawings. Ugly ones.
Promise saw it first. Grabbed it. Tore it in half before Pretty could.
"They're idiots," she whispered. "They don't matter."
But it did matter. It mattered when laughter followed her down the corridor. When Akhona kept her head down. When Snothando laughed along.
It mattered when even the teachers looked twice.
That same day, in Social Science, Miss Mavimbela paused her lesson and said, "Some learners need to remember this is a school, not a stage for confusion."
No one said names. But eyes turned.
Pretty stared out the window and clenched her jaw.
After school, Mr. Dube stopped her near the admin block.
"Miss Mhlophe," he said gently. "Can I speak with you?"
She nodded, throat dry.
They sat on a bench beneath the fig tree. The breeze was soft, but Pretty felt none of it.
"I've been hearing things," he said. "About bullying. About... targeting."
Pretty stayed quiet.
"I want you to know this school is a place for learning. For growth. Not judgement."
She looked up. "Even when it's from teachers?"
He blinked. Then sighed. "We're all learning, too."
She nodded. "Thank you, sir."
But it didn't make the pain disappear.
That night, she didn't write. She just lay on her bed, eyes open, listening to the sound of her aunt's soft snoring and the distant cry of a baby next door. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, someone laughed.
Akhona hadn't said a word.
Snothando was now a stranger.
And she? She wasn't sure who she was anymore.
She reached for her blanket and curled deeper into herself.
Wednesday morning. A new day. But not a better one.
Pretty walked through the school gate alone.
As she passed the block of Grade 9 classes, she heard someone say, "That's her. The one who thinks she's special."
She didn't turn.
She walked.
Because sometimes, surviving is all you can do.
But even then, she felt it — the judgement bell, ringing quietly in every stare, every whisper, every silence.
It rang.
And it did not stop.