Chapter Sixteen: Unity Week
The flyer went up quietly.
No morning announcement. No Instagram blast. Just paper, printed in too-bold ink and taped to the wall beside the auditorium.
UNITY WEEK
Dress Loud. Speak Proud. Bring Art That Represents You.
Kira saw it between third and fourth period, when she ducked out early from chemistry to avoid the cafeteria crush. The words didn't hit her all at once — just hovered, soft and wide like fog.
Dress loud.
Speak proud.
Bring art.
She stood there, unreadable expression, the weight of her sketchbook pressing down inside her backpack like a held breath.
For a second, her thumb brushed the corner of the flyer.
Then she tore it down.
Not in protest.
In decision.
Mina was still gone.
Each morning, Kira scanned the halls. Each period, she left space beside her. Her phone buzzed less and less now — just little things from Mina, typed in the dark when the house was asleep.
Mina (1:12 AM)
Today she asked if I'd like to go to a church camp this summer.
I think she meant "fix-it camp."
I told her no.
Kira (1:13 AM)
You're not something that needs fixing.
Mina (1:15 AM)
I'm trying to believe that.
Kira spent the afternoon in the art wing, sitting in the corner of the supply room while rain ticked softly against the windows. Mr. Nguyen had unlocked the back cabinet for her — a quiet nod to the unwritten rule: students like her didn't ask for permission. They created without being watched.
She unzipped her sketchbook, flipped past the pages she'd already filled — hands, windows, a pair of girls standing in a storm — and stared at the blank page like it had been waiting for her.
She didn't plan.
She didn't outline.
She just let her pencil move.
She drew two figures again.
This time: facing outward.
One with her hand lifted.
The other with her jaw tilted up.
Behind them, noise.
Around them, signs.
But in between — something quiet. A line of red thread between their hearts.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was true.
By Tuesday, the school was blooming.
Posters. Pins. Tie-dye shirts. A boy from theater wore rainbow suspenders and eyeliner thick enough to announce itself across the quad. Girls held hands in the open. A senior painted "Visibility is Vital" across the stairwell window in lipstick.
Kira didn't dress loud.
She wore jeans.
Her grey hoodie.
And a single strip of red ribbon tied around her wrist like a vow.
She hung her piece during sixth period, when most of the school was still inside. She used blue painter's tape, stuck it right between the school motto and the Unity Week welcome banner:
BE BOLD. BE KIND. BE YOU.
Kira's drawing didn't need a title.
But she signed it, lower corner, in the same pencil she'd used to sketch Mina's face on page thirty-two of her book.
Just three letters:
K. J.
By the time the final bell rang, people were already standing in front of it.
Some whispered.
Some smiled.
Some stared too long.
Kira stood behind a row of lockers and watched.
Watched them look at her work.
Watched them try to understand something that couldn't be named without cracking open.
She didn't hide.
She didn't explain.
She just stayed.
That night, Mina finally called.
Not a text. Not a voice note.
An actual call.
Kira answered on the second ring.
There was no greeting. Just breathing.
Then Mina whispered, "You hung it."
Kira closed her eyes. "Yeah."
"I saw it."
"I wanted you to."
There was silence.
Then:
"My mom asked if I still wanted to graduate here. I think she wants to send me somewhere 'cleaner.' Her word. Not mine."
Kira's voice dropped. "What did you say?"
"I told her I'm already clean. I told her I'm already me."
Kira blinked hard. "That's brave."
"It didn't feel brave."
"It was."
There was a pause.
Then Mina said, "Your art made me feel like I wasn't disappearing."
"You never were," Kira said. "You were just… waiting."
"For what?"
"For a door to open."
Wednesday.
Mina came back.
She walked into school like it didn't hurt.
Hair pulled into a soft braid.
A jacket Kira had never seen before.
Shoulders squared.
Her eyes found Kira across the courtyard.
And for the first time in days — maybe weeks — they didn't look tired.
They looked certain.
They didn't run into each other in the hallway.
They didn't sneak off to the darkroom.
They met in the open — near the library steps, where everyone passed.
Mina walked right up to her.
No fear. No pause.
And said, "I missed you."
Kira's voice caught. "Me too."
"I saw your drawing."
"I know."
"It felt like a hand reaching out."
"It was."
Mina smiled.
Then reached for her wrist.
Tied her own red ribbon around it.
They stood like that.
Quiet.
Visible.
Real.
Somewhere behind them, someone took a photo.
The flash caught in Kira's hair.
Mina didn't flinch.
Neither did she.
That afternoon, they found a new note in Kira's locker.
No name. No handwriting.
Just a folded scrap of lined paper.
Inside:
"You're making it harder for the rest of us."
Kira read it twice.
Then passed it to Mina.
Mina read it once.
Then calmly tore it in half.
"Then maybe it needs to be harder," she said.
Kira felt something break open in her chest — not pain.
Something freer.
In the final stretch of the week, the school filled with color.
Poems taped to lockers.
Music played between bells.
Teachers awkwardly but earnestly complimenting students' pins and shirts.
The painting Kira made was now circled in post-it notes — some affirming, some questioning, one that simply said, "thank you."
Mina didn't say much.
She didn't need to.
Her presence was loud enough.
On Friday, Ms. Rowe pulled them aside after class.
"I'm not supposed to say this," she said, voice low. "But you two are doing more for this school than any bulletin board ever has."
Mina smiled politely.
Kira looked down.
Ms. Rowe added, "Don't stop. Even when it's hard. Especially then."
They left her classroom with their fingers brushing.
That night, Mina stood in Kira's room for the first time.
No hiding.
No sneaking.
Just… presence.
Kira's mom knocked once, smiled when she saw her, and said, "We've got ginger tea on the stove."
And left.
Mina blinked. "She knows?"
Kira nodded. "I didn't say the words. But I think she sees anyway."
They sat cross-legged on the bed.
Sketchbook between them.
No performance.
No pretending.
Just a little closer, still.