The classroom door opened quietly, letting Bérénice slip inside. She scanned the room with a quick glance, spotted Hena near the back, and walked over without hesitation, her expression concerned.
— "Hena… are you okay? I heard some girls were bothering you," she said, lowering her voice.
Hena looked up, still seated, her face calm. She answered softly, almost detached:
— "Don't worry, I'm fine. They didn't do anything to me."
But Bérénice frowned, clearly unconvinced.
— "I'm sorry… I'll go have a word with those brats."
— "No, you don't need to do that," Hena replied quickly, her tone sharp but not aggressive. Just firm.
Bérénice crossed her arms, her gaze hardening slightly.
— "What are you talking about? As class rep, I have to—"
— "—avoid making enemies," Hena interrupted before she could finish. "And it's not like they really hurt me. They've always been like that. So it's fine."
A silence settled between them. Bérénice looked at her, hesitant, then finally sighed.
— "Alright. I'll respect your decision. But if they dare go after you again, I'll deal with them personally."
Hena looked away, a faint smirk on her lips.
— "You never change, do you..."
Bérénice softened, then added more hesitantly:
— "Actually… I hope you're not still upset about what I said earlier, during lunch?"
Hena lowered her eyes for a moment, then looked back up with more sincerity than before.
— "No, don't worry. I understood you only said that to break the ice between us… But you should avoid saying things like that. They can hurt, even if you don't mean them to."
— "Alright… I'm sorry. If you want, I can invite you again," Bérénice offered with a timid smile.
— "Today I don't think I can come. Maybe another time."
— "Okay."
A brief silence fell again, until Hena squinted slightly, amused.
— "Strange. You're not insisting even a little? That's not like you…"
Bérénice shrugged, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
— "I'd rather let you decide… today."
Hena chuckled softly under her breath. Bérénice, meanwhile, wore a broader, more satisfied smile — as if she had just scored a small victory.
Hena stepped off the last bus stop and walked the short distance home, her bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of the day still clinging to her like smoke. The neighborhood was quiet — the kind of silence that usually wrapped her like a blanket after a long day at school. Her house sat squat and gray under the dying light, its windows dim, curtains drawn. Nothing unusual.
Except today.
As she turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, the sight that greeted her made her freeze. The living room was a mess. Bottles on the floor, clothes thrown over furniture, ashtrays spilling onto the carpet. It looked like someone had thrown a party and left halfway through the cleanup. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her bag.
— What the hell happened here?
She dropped her bag by the wall and stepped in, careful not to trip over an empty bottle. As she picked up the first piece of crumpled clothing, her eyes fell on something that made her stomach turn: used condoms. One still glistening faintly in the half-light.
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't need to guess who had been here.
Heart pounding, she rushed to her mother's room, praying she wouldn't find what she feared. But the door creaked open and confirmed it all.
Elene Ferza lay on the bed, half-naked, passed out. Her chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, her mouth slightly open, the sour stench of alcohol filling the air. She was out cold, her face slack, makeup smeared.
Hena knelt beside her and shook her shoulder.
— Mom. Mom, wake up.
Nothing. Just a grunt.
— Dammit...
She stood up, pulled a thin blanket over her mother's body, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her like she was sealing something toxic away.
She spent the next hour cleaning the house in silence, mechanically picking up bottles, scrubbing stains from the floor, bagging the trash. She sprayed the air freshener until the room no longer stank of sex and vodka. And then she sat, finally, on the couch, waiting.
As if something might change.
It was around nine when Elene stumbled out of the bedroom, still in the same disheveled state, her hair a nest, eyes half-lidded. She yawned, then noticed Hena.
— You're already home?
Hena didn't look up.
— You don't even know what time your daughter comes home.
Elene blinked, rubbed her temple.
— I don't want to argue right now. I'm tired.
Hena scoffed, bitter.
— As if you've ever been anything but tired.
Her mother didn't respond.
There was a moment of quiet. Then Elene looked around and frowned.
— You haven't made dinner yet?
Hena turned her head slowly toward her, her eyes dark.
— If you're hungry, ask one of the men you sleep with to take you to a restaurant.
Elene flinched. Her voice rose, slurred but angry:
— Don't talk to me like that. I'm your mother. I deserve respect.
Hena stood up now, face cold, voice steady but razor-sharp.
— If you want respect, start by respecting yourself. What kind of daughter is supposed to respect her mother when she comes home to find her half-naked, passed out, with condoms on the floor? You disgust me. You humiliate me.
She turned and walked down the hallway without looking back.
— I'm going to my room.
The door slammed.
Elene stood frozen in the silence that followed. Her lip trembled. She sat down heavily on the couch, the same couch Hena had just occupied, and buried her face in her hands. Tears began to fall silently.
In her room, Hena collapsed onto her bed and cried too.
But her tears weren't just sadness. They were rage, exhaustion, longing.
Two women, divided by years and wounds and regrets, cried alone in separate rooms. And the silence of the house swallowed them both.
Night had fallen over the neighborhood. Outside, only the flickering streetlights cast a pale light through the dirty curtains of Hena's room. She had stayed there, curled up, face buried in her pillow, crying silently. The sobs had stopped. Now there was only the void. Crushing. Silent. Unbearable.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her bare legs brushing the cold floor. She wiped her wet cheeks and stared at the cracked ceiling. A thought crossed her mind.
Run away.
She wanted to run away. Leave this house. Disappear. Be somewhere else. Be someone else.
But where could she go? Who would take her in? Even Bérénice, as kind as she was, would never truly understand. How could she explain this constant shame? This invisible filth stuck to her skin?
Suddenly, she heard a noise in the hallway. Slow, heavy footsteps. Her door creaked open slowly, and she didn't have the strength to react. Her mother entered, barefoot, trembling.
— "Hena..." she whispered, her eyes red.
The girl barely turned her head, lips tight.
— "What do you want?"
— "I... I'm sorry. For all of this. What you saw... I didn't want you to... I mean..."
She trailed off. She didn't even know where to begin. She sat down on the edge of the bed, a few inches away from her daughter.
— "I'm a bad mother, aren't I?"
Hena didn't respond. She looked away.
— "I can't even cook for you... or love you properly..."
A long silence settled. Then, barely audible, Hena murmured:
— "Why do you do this? Why do you let yourself fall apart like this? It's just the two of us..."
Ferza lowered her head.
— "Because I'm tired, Hena... So damn tired. Because I'm scared, all the time. Because I feel like shit, and it's easier to drink and open my legs than face the truth. Because I've failed at everything. Even you."
Her voice broke. She placed a hand on the blanket, hesitant, then pulled it back.
— "I'm ashamed too, you know? I look at myself in the mirror and I don't recognize who I am."
She broke down in tears. Real tears. Raw. Unfiltered.
Hena stayed still. It was the first time she had seen her mother so vulnerable. For a moment, a very brief moment, she wanted to reach out and touch her hand. To tell her that it would be okay. That she could change.
But she didn't have the strength.
— "Then change," she said simply. "Before it's too late."
She stood up, walked around her mother, opened the door softly, and left the room. She needed air. Solitude. Space.
In the living room, she stopped in front of the window. The sky was black. Not a single star. But she breathed. A little better. Just enough to survive one more night.
Daniel, hunched over his desk, the soft light of his lamp casting a golden glow over his open notebooks. But he wasn't writing anything.
He slowly straightened up, ran a hand through his dark hair, then stared blankly at the wall in front of him.
— "Today, Clara and her gang were quite useful. Thanks to them, I managed to get a little closer to her. My plan is working... slowly but surely."
A slight smirk curled his lips—barely noticeable, but full of arrogance.