Chapter Seventeen: Loud Doesn't Always Mean Shouting
They didn't kiss at school.
Not because they were ashamed.
But because some things were sacred.
Because some things didn't need an audience.
Kira understood that now.
Love could be silent.
Could be soft.
Could be a ribbon tied tight around the wrist.
Or the half-inch of space between two fingers walking down a hallway.
And sometimes, love was just not hiding.
After Unity Week ended, the school buzzed with its own aftermath.
Someone in the yearbook club had printed Kira's drawing in the newsletter. Not full page — just a corner shot, with the caption: "Student Submission – Unity in Silence."
Kira didn't tell anyone it was hers.
But she didn't deny it either.
Mina saw it first.
She folded the paper, tucked it into her sketchbook, and whispered, "You're everywhere now."
Kira shrugged, pretending it didn't make her feel dizzy.
"Do you like it?" Mina asked.
"I like that it didn't need my name."
"But it's still yours."
Kira looked at her then — not away, not sideways, but at her.
"It's yours too."
In English class, Ms. Rowe introduced the next project: Personal Narratives.
"Write about something that changed you," she said. "Tell the truth. Even if your voice shakes."
Kira's pen hovered above her notebook.
Mina tapped her foot beneath the desk, fingers twitching like she wanted to draw too.
They didn't speak until after class.
"Are you going to write about me?" Mina asked, half-teasing.
Kira stared at her. "You're the reason I started writing anything at all."
"Oh."
That was all Mina said.
But her hand brushed Kira's in the hallway a minute later — a touch no one else would've noticed.
Except now, people noticed everything.
By Wednesday, the whispers started again.
Not cruel, exactly.
Just constant.
Little sideways glances. Half-laughs.
"Are they, like… together-together?"
"I heard her mom's freaking out."
"I thought she dated that football guy last year."
"Honestly, good for them."
Kira tried not to listen.
But she'd always been good at listening.
Too good.
At lunch, Mina sat across from her instead of beside her. They didn't speak much. Just shared fries, one at a time, like they were feeding something neither of them could name.
When Mina got up to throw away her tray, someone muttered just loud enough: "Drama club lesbians."
Mina didn't flinch.
She walked back, sat down, and leaned close to Kira's ear.
"I hope they're watching," she whispered.
After school, they went to the park.
Same bench. Same hollow near the fence.
Kira sat with her knees pulled up, sketchbook open to a blank page.
Mina leaned over her shoulder. "What are you drawing?"
"Nothing yet."
"You always say that."
"Because I don't know what it is until it's done."
Mina watched the first line appear — a curve, a silhouette, a shoulder against wind.
"Can I ask something?" she said.
Kira nodded.
"Do you ever… wish we kept it secret?"
The pencil stopped.
Kira looked at her.
"No."
"Even with everything?"
"Yes. Even with everything."
Mina exhaled. "Me too. Just wanted to be sure we were still brave."
Kira drew the second figure.
This one facing forward.
Eyes steady.
Heart showing.
The next day, Kira arrived at school to find someone had added to her Unity Week painting.
Not drawn over.
Not defaced.
Added.
A third figure, painted in pencil — rough and nervous — standing behind the other two, hands uncertain.
Underneath, a sticky note:
"I'm not there yet. But I want to be."
Kira stared at it for a long time.
Then took out her pen and wrote underneath:
"Take your time. We'll still be here."
Mina saw it at lunch.
She didn't speak.
Just reached over and squeezed Kira's knee beneath the table.
That night, Kira's mom sat beside her on the couch, flipping through the school newsletter.
She paused on the page with the drawing.
"This is yours," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Kira nodded.
Her mom stared at it for a while.
Then asked, "Is she good to you?"
Kira blinked.
Then whispered, "Yes."
Her mom didn't smile. But her shoulders softened.
"You don't have to explain," she said. "I just wanted to know she's kind."
"She's the kindest person I know."
That made her mother smile, just a little.
"I'm glad."
Kira felt something in her chest uncoil.
Like a knot loosened by gentleness.
The next morning, Kira found a folded piece of paper inside her locker.
Different handwriting this time.
Sharper. Careful.
Inside, it read:
"Thank you. For being visible. Some of us still can't. But you're helping us imagine it."
She didn't tell Mina about that one.
She just carried it in her sketchbook — tucked between the page with Mina's portrait and the list they'd written in the darkroom.
Thursday afternoon, a group of seniors hosted a panel on identity in the library.
Mina didn't speak.
But she went.
Sat in the front row, next to Kira.
They listened as others talked about labels, loss, reclaiming names, and re-teaching parents how to love.
At one point, a boy said, "I didn't come out. I just started living louder."
Mina wrote it on her arm in pen.
Kira smiled.
Didn't say a word.
That night, Mina texted:
Mina (11:14 PM)
I've been quiet a lot this week. I think I needed to hear the noise around us before I added to it.
Kira (11:16 PM)
That's okay. I think you speak loudest when you're quiet.
Mina (11:17 PM)
I love you.
Kira (11:17 PM)
I love you too.
Friday arrived like a sigh.
Everything still buzzing — but softer now. Less sharp.
Kira walked into school with a new drawing in her hand.
No ribbon this time.
Just the page.
She taped it to the wall beside the original painting.
Three girls.
All looking forward.
One holding a flower.
One holding fire.
One holding nothing — just standing. But strong.
Underneath, she wrote:
"There's no right way to be brave. Just keep standing."
Mina found her by the lockers twenty minutes later.
No words.
Just a kiss to the back of her hand.
Then her forehead.
Then, finally, her mouth.
Quick. Certain.
In the middle of everything.
Someone whistled.
Someone gasped.
Someone cheered.
But Kira didn't hear any of it.
She only heard her heartbeat.
And Mina's voice saying, "I think we just shouted."