I always wake up before the sun. Not out of discipline, and certainly not by choice, but because the stench of spilled alcohol on the floor and my mother's raspy coughing chase sleep away like a kick to the ribs. The apartment is small, filthy, and cold. There are no curtains on the window—just an old sheet pinned up with two rusted tacks. I get up without a sound. She's still asleep, slumped over the couch, an empty bottle in one hand, the other resting on her chest as it rises and falls unevenly.
I don't love her. I don't hate her either. She's just a broken woman. A hollow shell that still breathes. And me? I'm what she left behind as a legacy: a silent girl, wary of everything, marked for life by things she wishes she'd never understood.
I dress quickly. Dark jeans, black hoodie, slip-on sneakers. I hide my hair under the hood. The more invisible I am, the better I feel. Before leaving, I glance at her. She's sleeping with her mouth open, a string of drool on her chin. She mumbles something. I don't want to know what.
I go down the stairs. Two crumbling floors, walls covered in graffiti, creaking steps, a used syringe on the landing. Outside, the streets are already awake. Not in a good way. Eyes follow me. Neighbors, guys leaning against walls, old folks judging silently, women whispering as I pass by. They've already made up their minds. "The whore's daughter." "She'll spread her legs like her mother."
They don't need proof. Their imagination is enough. Rumors take care of the rest. So I keep my eyes down and quicken my pace. A car honks. A guy whistles. I clench my fists. I want to spit. Scream. But I stay silent. It's the only thing no one can take from me.
The bus is my sanctuary. No one here knows me. No staring, no comments, no judgment. I sit at the back, by the window. I put in my earphones, but I don't listen to anything. I just pretend. Like always.
School is twenty minutes away. I usually make it just in time. Today's no different. As I step into the courtyard, the looks change. Less direct than in my neighborhood, but just as poisonous. I hear the whispers. "That's her." "The girl from the red-light district." "They say she sleeps with older men."
Lies. All of them. But they prefer their version to my truth. It's more entertaining. Dirtier. And people love filth—as long as it's not theirs.
I head to class without a word. My seat is in the back, by the window. Ironically, this year I sit next to him: Daniel Nim. The perfect boy. Handsome, charming, admired. Everything I'm not. And I don't trust him. Especially not him.
When I arrive, the murmurs die down for a moment. I pull back my hood. I feel the stares crawling down my back. I sit without a word.
He says, "Hi."
I don't answer. I don't even look at him. Not out of pride. But because I don't believe in greetings that don't come with a price. And because in his eyes, there's something else. Something strange.
She immediately looked away, pretending not to have heard. She didn't want any trouble. Not again.
That boy… did he just try to say hi to me? she thought, staring blankly at a spot on the desk. I'm not going to answer him. He's one of the most popular guys in this school, I've seen his face everywhere. I should ignore him. My life here is already tense enough as it is.
She crossed her arms, closing herself off even more.
And besides… there's something strange about him. He doesn't have that dumb smile like the others, or that way of looking at me like the rest do. He's not the kind of boy who should be interested in someone like me—especially with the reputation I have here…
A darker thought crossed her mind.
Like all men, he probably wants something. Maybe he just wanted to make fun of me too. I should stay away from him.
She sighed quietly, hoping the day would end quickly.
A few minutes later, two guys walk over. The popular type—confident, arrogant, idiots. They want to ask me out. But it's not really a question. They speak like the decision's already been made for me. I say nothing.
They insist. Their tone shifts. One of them raises his hand, ready to hit me. My heart pounds. I freeze. And then, another girl steps in. She grabs his wrist.
"If you ever try to raise your hand to her again, I'll break it. Got that, asshole?"
Her name is Bérénice. Class representative. She stands up for me. Me. A girl everyone whispers shit about. I don't understand.
The guys back off. They leave. She looks at me and says:
"Why do you let them walk all over you? You should stand up for yourself. Slap the bastards. Next time, I'll break both their hands."
I stay silent. I'm not used to being defended. Even less to someone talking to me like that. I just ask:
"Why are you helping me? We've never spoken before."
She smiles. Not mockingly. More like… determined.
"Because I'm the class rep. And because I don't believe in rumors. I'm going to help you. Until you start seeing me as a friend."
I don't reply. I don't have the words. Or the strength to believe it.
But deep down, a part of me wants it to be true. Just once.
She sat next to me without asking. Just like that. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I hate assholes like them," she said, pulling out a pen. "They think the world belongs to them just because people laugh at their stupid jokes."
I said nothing. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye.
She's not like the others. Her uniform is perfect, but there's a fire in her eyes. She speaks like someone who's fought too many battles for her age.
She noticed my silence but didn't try to force anything.
"I'm not here to save you or whatever," she added, staring at her notebook. "I just hate injustice. That's all."
That word again. Injustice. I've heard it in books, in speeches. But I've never seen someone really fight it — not for me, anyway.
I finally spoke, my voice low.
"They're not the first ones."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I figured."
A silence settled. Not awkward. Just… silent.
Then she said, seriously:
"If they ever come near you again, don't hesitate to call me. You shouldn't let them get away with it, okay?"
I said nothing.
She sighed, but kept smiling.
"You're not very talkative, huh? You'll never make any friends like that."
I lowered my gaze slightly.
"I'm fine like this. I don't need friends."
She looked at me with a softness that made me uncomfortable.
"Sorry, but I can't just watch a girl as beautiful as you stay isolated, get mocked, and live a lonely life."
What is she talking about? I thought. I don't need her. I don't need anyone.
Then she said, as if it were obvious:
"I'm taking you out for coffee after class. You don't have a choice. After the bell rings, we're going to grab a coffee, and you're going to tell me about yourself."
I tried to cut it short.
"No thanks. I'm busy today."
She gave me a teasing smile.
"If you refuse, I'll greet you every single day with so much joy and sunshine that you'll end up hating me enough to want to kill me."
She's not going to let it go… I thought, resigned.
So I whispered:
"Alright… fine."
The bell rang, marking the end of class. Hena slowly packed her things, hoping Bérénice had forgotten. But of course, she was already there, standing in front of her desk, that same determined smile on her lips.
"Come on, up you go. You said yes, no backing out now."
Hena sighed and stood, dragging her feet. They walked out of the school together, side by side. Bérénice talked, throwing out casual remarks, silly anecdotes, comments about teachers or other students. Hena didn't say a word. Not a glance, not a reaction. She kept her eyes on the ground, hands in her pockets, walking slowly.
Bérénice didn't seem bothered. She kept talking, as if the silence didn't matter. As if she expected it.
They arrived at a small, quiet café tucked away from the main street. It was nearly empty at this hour. Bérénice walked in first and picked a table in the back, far from the windows. Hena followed, still silent.
A waitress came by. They ordered. Black coffee for Hena. Hot chocolate for Bérénice.
Then silence fell again.
Bérénice looked at her for a moment, elbows on the table, hands clasped beneath her chin.
"You know… I've heard the rumors. Everyone has, really."
Hena stayed still, eyes fixed on her cup.
"But I don't care. Honestly. Even if they're true… it's not my business. I just want to understand. Not judge."
A long silence followed. The sound of the coffee machine in the background, the soft clink of spoons. Then nothing. Just a heavy, pressing stillness.
Hena didn't move. Her face was closed off, unreadable. She looked like she was somewhere else entirely.
Then slowly, she raised her eyes to meet Bérénice's. Her gaze was colder, harder.
"If I don't say anything, you won't leave me alone, will you?" she murmured.
Bérénice gave a faint smile, almost relieved.
Hena continued, her voice sharper:
"Then I'll tell you everything. It's up to you what you do with that information about me."
Following.....