Chapter Fifteen: The Hurt in the Middle
Mina didn't come to school on Friday.
No message.
No warning.
Just… silence.
Kira noticed the absence in everything: the empty seat in English, the untouched chair beside her at lunch, the way the hallways seemed too loud now without Mina's quiet anchor beside her.
By fifth period, she couldn't focus.
By seventh, she was checking her phone every few minutes, even though she knew there'd be nothing there.
She texted once:
Kira (12:17 PM)
Hey. Just checking in. I miss you.
No reply.
Not in the next hour.
Not by the time the final bell rang.
Not even after Kira stood outside the gates, hoping Mina would show up late, backpack half-zipped, eyes sleepy, like this was just another one of her bad mornings.
But she didn't come.
And the quiet that followed didn't feel like peace.
It felt like vanishing.
That night, Kira sat at her desk, her sketchbook open but untouched.
A new kind of fear crept into her chest—not the fear of being seen, or being judged. But the fear of being shut out. Cut off.
She didn't know where Mina had gone.
Or what had happened.
Or if it was her fault.
She thought of all the moments they'd stood together this past week—by lockers, under stairwells, in the red light of the darkroom. All those stolen hours that had felt too good, too warm.
Maybe someone had seen.
Maybe someone had told.
Maybe Mina's mother had finally decided the match was too dangerous to hold.
Kira picked up her pencil and drew a door.
Closed. With no handle.
And beside it, a single shoeprint fading into snow.
Saturday came grey and cold.
Still no reply.
Kira woke early, brushed her hair even though she didn't need to, then sat on the edge of her bed with her phone clutched like a prayer.
At 9:41 AM, she called.
Straight to voicemail.
She left nothing.
Because what could she say?
That she missed her?
That she was scared?
That the hallway didn't feel like the hallway without her?
That every time she opened her locker, her fingers shook in case another note was waiting?
No.
Kira didn't leave any of that.
She just held the silence.
Felt its shape.
And hated it.
By noon, she was standing outside Mina's house.
She didn't remember deciding to go.
She just remembered her body moving—one foot, then another, backpack slung across her shoulder like armor.
The gate was closed.
The curtains drawn.
No sound came from inside.
She stood there, motionless, for what felt like forever.
Then the door opened.
Not Mina.
Her mother.
Hair perfect.
Eyes sharp.
Mouth set in a line so tight it might've been carved from glass.
Kira blinked. "Hi. I—um—I was just checking to see if Mina's okay."
The woman looked her up and down.
Not with curiosity.
But calculation.
She didn't open the door wider.
Didn't smile.
Didn't even blink.
"She's not available."
Kira's voice cracked. "Is she okay?"
"That's not your concern."
"I care about her."
The woman's expression didn't change. "You're not welcome here."
Kira's throat closed.
The woman didn't wait for a response.
The door clicked shut.
And Kira stood on the porch like a ghost.
It rained later that day.
Kira walked without a hood.
Let it soak her.
She wandered through the park.
Past the swings.
Past the benches.
To the hollow space near the fence where they used to sit on Thursdays after school and trade half-finished sketches, biting the inside of their cheeks to hide their smiles.
She sat there.
Alone.
And pulled out her pencil.
This time she didn't draw people.
She drew a flame.
Small.
Blue.
Almost gone.
Then she drew two fingers cupped around it, keeping it from the wind.
That night, Mina finally replied.
Mina (11:32 PM)
I'm sorry.
Kira stared at the screen so long her vision blurred.
Then:
Kira (11:34 PM)
Are you safe?
The typing bubble appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then returned.
Mina (11:36 PM)
Yes. Just… contained.
Kira (11:36 PM)
I went to your house.
Mina (11:37 PM)
I know. My mom said. She wasn't kind.
Kira (11:37 PM)
I just needed to see you.
Mina (11:38 PM)
I wanted that too. But I couldn't open the door. She took my phone. Just got it back.
Kira (11:38 PM)
Are you okay?
A pause.
A long one.
Then:
Mina (11:41 PM)
No. But I will be.
Kira (11:42 PM)
Do you want me to come again?
Mina (11:43 PM)
No. Not yet. She's watching everything.
Kira (11:44 PM)
Okay. I'll wait.
Mina (11:45 PM)
Thank you. I love you.
Kira (11:45 PM)
I love you too.
Sunday passed in a blur.
Kira drew.
Mostly hands again.
One reaching. One curled into a fist. One caught in a web of string.
Each one carried her through the hours.
By evening, she had three pages filled.
By midnight, she had a plan.
Monday morning.
Kira walked into school with purpose.
She didn't wear her hoodie.
She didn't carry her sketchbook like a shield.
She carried it like a gift.
When she got to Ms. Rowe's classroom, she waited until the bell rang, then approached her.
"Ms. Rowe?"
The teacher looked up from her desk. "Yes, Kira?"
"Do you have a moment?"
Ms. Rowe nodded. "Always."
Kira placed the sketchbook on her desk and flipped it open to the newest page.
It was a drawing of Mina.
Not exact.
But true.
Hair loose. Shoulders curled forward slightly. A shadow behind her that looked like it might once have been wings.
Ms. Rowe stared for a long moment. "Did she ask you to draw this?"
Kira shook her head. "No. But I think she needs to know someone still sees her."
Ms. Rowe didn't speak for several seconds.
Then: "Would you like me to give it to her?"
Kira hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Yes. Please."
That afternoon, Mina texted:
Mina (3:14 PM)
I cried when I saw it.
Kira (3:15 PM)
I almost did too.
Mina (3:16 PM)
I haven't seen myself in days. Not the real me. Not the me you draw.
Kira (3:16 PM)
That is the real you.
Mina (3:17 PM)
Then thank you for holding her while I couldn't.
They didn't see each other again that week.
But they wrote every night.
Little truths.
Little lifelines.
Mina said her mother had started leaving pamphlets in her room again. Books about "healing." Prayers left on her pillow like warnings.
Kira said she still couldn't walk past her locker without checking for another note.
They didn't try to fix it.
They didn't pretend.
They just stayed.
Present.
Honest.
Still choosing each other.
Even from a distance.
On Friday, a new flyer went up in the hallway:
UNITY WEEK – MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY
Dress Loud. Speak Proud. Bring Art That Represents You.
Kira stared at it for a long time.
Then tore one down.
Not in protest.
But in possibility.
That weekend, she painted something new.
On watercolor paper.
Wide strokes.
Warm colors.
Two figures.
Back to back.
Not hiding.
Just standing.
Around them: clouds. Noise. Arrows.
But between them: light.
Kira didn't write anything on it.
She didn't need to.
Some truths don't need to be spelled out to be understood.
She slipped the painting into an envelope.
Wrote "Monday" on the front.
And waited.