The sky over Nkantini looked bruised that morning, streaked with dull greys and the uncertain blue of a day unsure of how to carry itself. Pretty stood by the school gate, hugging her arms tightly against her chest. The air wasn't cold because of the weather—it was the cold that came from being watched but not welcomed, noticed but not spoken to. There were no greetings from the girls who once laughed with her. No giggles from her circle. Only glances. Only silence. And silence hurt more than words.
She had never felt more alone.
Promise was still kind, still tried to smile, but even she was quieter now. Her kindness came in softer tones, like someone offering help from behind a glass wall. Sanelisiwe kept her distance—not rudely, but enough to make Pretty feel like she had something contagious. Namisa no longer waited for her by the corner of the path. And Snothando? Snothando had chosen her side the day the whispers began.
Even Akhona moved differently now. Her shoulders were always tight, like she was bracing for a blow. Her eyes never met Pretty's anymore. They used to exchange smiles across the room. Now, there was nothing but space.
Pretty took a deep breath through her nose and walked into the classroom. Her desk was in the same place it had always been, but somehow, it felt smaller. The space around her felt tighter, like the walls themselves were inching closer.
During registration, Miss Mavimbela stood at the front of the classroom with a clipboard in hand and a slightly raised brow.
"Class, please welcome Mzwandile Nyoka. He's joining us from a school in Nongoma."
Mzwandile walked in slowly, almost cautiously. He was tall, his dark skin smooth and glowing under the fluorescent lights. There was a noticeable scar on his right eyebrow, not fresh, but visible. He looked around the classroom with calm eyes, not shy, not arrogant—just aware.
Miss Mavimbela pointed to an empty desk near the back. "You can sit there for now, Mzwandile. We'll sort out your textbooks later."
As he walked past Pretty's desk, his gaze paused. It wasn't a long look, not the kind that made her shift uncomfortably. Just a quick glance, curious but soft.
She didn't return the look.
During break, Pretty sat alone beneath the old tree at the far end of the school yard. It had become her place. Her corner of quiet. The other girls had claimed the fence as theirs, but Pretty no longer belonged in that space.
She picked at her lunch absentmindedly, breaking pieces of bread and feeding them to a few stubborn birds that had grown used to her presence.
Someone approached. Not rushed. Not loud. Just one pair of feet.
He sat down next to her.
"You're Pretty, right?"
She looked up, blinking at the familiar face. "Yeah."
"I'm Mzwandile," he said. "You looked like you could use someone to sit with."
She studied him. He wasn't grinning. He wasn't trying to flirt or impress. He was just there. Present. Like someone who didn't need to fill the space with noise.
"People don't sit with me these days," she said.
"That's exactly why I'm here. I don't like crowds anyway."
They sat in silence. Not the awkward kind, but the sort that fills up with understanding. With breath. With peace.
In the days that followed, Mzwandile never pushed. He greeted her each morning with a nod. Sometimes they shared snacks during break. Sometimes they said nothing at all. But every time she walked into the classroom, he made sure she had a space beside him. He didn't ask questions. He didn't bring up the rumours.
And Pretty? Pretty felt safe in a way she hadn't felt in weeks.
Then came Friday.
During LO with Mr. Dube, a lesson on peer pressure was taking place. The classroom was buzzing with low conversations, but nothing loud enough to drown out the tension that had been building all week.
Sfundo, a boy who was always making jokes at the wrong time, decided to throw one more.
"At least some of us know who we like," he said, loudly. "Not confused like some girls here."
The air went still.
Pretty felt every eye in the room shift.
She looked down, biting the inside of her cheek.
But before anyone could laugh, Mzwandile stood.
"Say her name," he said, his voice low but sharp. "If you're so sure. Say it."
Mr. Dube tried to intervene. "Gentlemen, let's stay on topic."
Sfundo smirked. "Why you defending her, huh? You want her too?"
Gasps.
It happened fast.
Mzwandile was across the room in seconds. His fist connected with Sfundo's jaw before anyone could blink. Desks scraped. Screams echoed. Chaos erupted.
Mr. Dube blew his whistle and called for prefects.
Mzwandile was pulled away.
Sfundo sat stunned, holding his bleeding lip.
Pretty didn't move.
Her body had gone still, but not from fear. From something deeper. Sadness.
She hadn't asked for this. Not again. Not like this.
After school, she found him sitting near the kitchen block, head bowed like someone waiting for punishment.
She sat down beside him. "You okay?"
He looked up slowly. "They gave me a warning. One more fight and I'm suspended. Maybe expelled."
She was quiet for a moment. "Why did you do it?"
He shrugged, then looked at her. "Because I've seen what happens when nobody steps up. My cousin was bullied until he dropped out. Nobody said anything. I promised myself I wouldn't be one of those people who just watch."
"But I didn't ask you to," she whispered.
"I know," he said. "But I did it anyway."
There was silence.
But not the lonely kind.
That night, Pretty opened her journal with hands that didn't shake.
"Dear Diary,
Today someone stood up for me. Not to make himself look strong. Not to get points. Just because it was right. He didn't ask for anything back. He didn't even ask if I wanted him to.
I'm tired of people who only show up when it's easy. I'm tired of silence.
Maybe I'm still not ready to trust completely. But today, I believed again that not everyone watches you fall.
Some people try to catch you."
She closed her journal.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn't cry before sleeping.
She smiled.