Tracy
I saw her again today.
Not in any remarkable way.
Just walking across the field behind school, carrying a worn-out copy of some science book like it weighed more than it should. Her steps were quiet, steady. She didn't speak to anyone. No one spoke to her.
And yet, I kept watching.
Not long. Just long enough to make myself uncomfortable.
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"Be careful," Dad always says.
"Not everyone walks in the light."
He means it kindly, I think. But I've heard it so often that I sometimes forget what it means. Maybe that's why I catch myself watching people like her — people who move differently through the world. People who aren't trying to fit in because they know they won't.
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We had Scripture Club that afternoon. I always stay behind after the others leave to help clean up — wipe the tables, gather the hymn books, re-stack the chairs. It's quiet work, but it keeps my hands busy.
That's when I noticed her again.
Laila.
She was outside the classroom window, waiting near the front gate. Probably for her brother or her father. She looked cold, her arms crossed, her eyes on the ground like she was avoiding something no one else could see.
I nearly opened the door.
Nearly asked if she was okay.
But then Sarah leaned over and said, "Don't you think it's weird? Her always being alone?"
I didn't answer. Just smiled the way people expect me to.
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Sometimes, I wonder if the path I'm on is one I chose — or one I was placed on before I could speak.
Becoming a nun was never a question. It was a calling. Or maybe just a comfort. A way to feel close to something pure, something good. I've always believed that. Still do.
But lately, my prayers feel… quieter. Like I'm whispering to someone who's walked a few steps ahead.
And I don't know how to catch up.
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That night, I sat by my window and opened my journal. I wrote one line, then stopped:
> "She looked lonely today."
Then I closed the book and shoved it under my mattress.
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