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Chapter 19 — The Torn Uniform
The sound of fabric tearing is small, but to me, it is thunder.
I freeze as Xu Feiyan's scissors slip across the hem of my skirt, slicing the neat fold apart. The edges dangle uneven, jagged like a wound.
The classroom erupts. "Cheap already, now it's garbage," someone sneers.
I clutch the cloth instinctively. My chest burns.
I remember when I was twelve and my stepfather shredded my favorite dress — the only one my father had ever bought me. He ripped it to pieces in front of me because I had dared to wear it too often.
"You're not a princess," he spat. "You're nothing."
So when Feiyan smirks and says, "Oops, accident," I meet her eyes and say nothing.
Because this is familiar. This is recycled cruelty.
I stand, gather the torn ends, and knot them together. It looks messy, ugly — but I sit down calmly as though nothing happened.
Their laughter roars. But my silence cuts deeper.
---
Chapter 20 — The Broken Pen
My pen snaps in half between Zhao Mingkai's fingers. Ink leaks down his palm, and he smears it across my desk, my hand, my sleeve.
"Useless, just like you," he mutters, tossing the pieces into my lap.
I look at the ink bleeding into my skin. Black veins crawling.
Once, at eight, my cousins snapped my only toy — a porcelain rabbit. They crushed it under their heels, shards slicing my fingers as I tried to gather the remains.
"Stop crying," my grandmother said. "It was worthless anyway."
Worthless. Always worthless.
But I do not give Mingkai the satisfaction of seeing pain. I wipe the ink onto my skirt, open another pen, and keep writing.
Even ruined, I write. Even broken, I continue.
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Chapter 21 — The Ink-Pen Cut
It is not an accident this time.
Shuyin drags the sharpened edge of her metal pen against my wrist as she leans over to borrow my eraser.
The sting is small, barely a line, but it blooms red against my skin.
Her smile is wide. "Oops, sorry. So clumsy."
The class giggles. "Meili bleeds easily, doesn't she?"
I stare at the line, thin but vivid.
I remember worse cuts. The belt buckle of my stepfather slashing across my arm when I was eleven. The sting, the welt, the whisper: "Don't talk back."
This shallow line is nothing compared to that. But something in me hardens.
I cover the wound with my sleeve. Silent. Always silent.
But my silence is not weakness. It is a blade I keep hidden.
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Chapter 22 — The Locker Trap
When I open my locker, the stench hits me first. Rotten food, moldy fruit, spilled milk soaking into my books.
My classmates crowd around, laughing, gagging, pointing.
"Smells just like Meili," someone says.
My stomach twists, but my face remains still.
Because I remember worse smells — the smell of bruised skin, of alcohol on my stepfather's breath, of fear that clung to me like sweat.
This locker, this prank, this mess? It is nothing compared to the nights when I prayed the footsteps would pass my door.
I lift the books out carefully, dripping, ruined. I close the locker with a click, as though I don't hear them at all.
And for a moment, they hesitate. Because they expect rage. Or tears. But I give them nothing.
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Chapter 23 — The Chair Strike
I sit down. A hand shoves me forward.
The edge of the desk slams into my ribs. Pain jolts through me, sharp and breath-stealing.
Laughter. Always laughter.
I clutch my side, willing myself not to gasp.
Because I remember a heavier strike. My stepfather's fist against my chest when I was thirteen, knocking the breath from me until I thought my lungs would collapse. My mother's voice, cold: "She deserves it."
So this? This shove? This pain? It is nothing new.
I straighten slowly, one hand gripping the desk, the other pressed against my ribs. My eyes stay low, my voice absent.
But inside I whisper: Every strike you give me becomes fuel. Every laugh you throw at me becomes a vow. I will not be broken by children when I have already survived monsters.
---
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Chapter 29 — The Ink Poured
I had just opened my notebook when I saw the shadow fall across the page.
Then came the splash.
A full bottle of black ink tipped over, spilling across my notes. It bled into the lines, drowning the words I had written, staining my fingers as I tried to save the pages.
The laughter rose instantly. "Black suits her!" Zixin mocked, clapping his hands like it was a show.
I stared at the mess, the ruined words spreading like veins.
When I was eleven, my mother once poured an entire pot of tea over my homework because I got a question wrong. The hot liquid burned my skin, the paper curling under the heat. I'd cried silently that day, cradling the soggy remains of my effort, knowing I would be punished again for having "nothing to show."
This ink, this laughter — it was familiar. Too familiar.
I closed the notebook and let the stains sink in. Another page ruined. Another memory written in black.
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Chapter 30 — The Locker Flood
When I opened my locker, water poured out. Cold, soaking. My books fell, pages dripping, the covers ruined.
A plastic bag burst from the top, ice cubes scattering across the floor. Feiyan snickered, her phone camera flashing as she recorded me.
"Cry, Meili," she whispered. "Cry so I can save it forever."
But I did not.
When I was eight, my cousins once filled my schoolbag with raw eggs. By the time I found out, the shells cracked, yolk and slime coating my books, dripping through my fingers. They laughed until their stomachs hurt, while I scrubbed the mess alone.
Water is lighter than egg. Ice melts away. But laughter always stays.
I picked up the ruined books one by one, my arms soaked, my hair dripping from the splash. My steps were slow but steady.
I wouldn't give them the tears they wanted.
---
Chapter 31 — The Desk Push
The shove came without warning. My desk tipped forward, crashing to the floor with a thunderous sound. My pens scattered, my papers slid across the tiles like feathers caught in the wind.
Everyone cheered. Shuyin raised her hand like she had scored a victory.
"Oops," she smirked.
I crouched silently, collecting my pens. Each one rolled just out of reach, forcing me to chase them across the floor while shoes kicked them farther away.
It reminded me of when I was thirteen, and my stepfather flipped my dinner table after a small argument with my mother. Plates shattered. Food spread across the floor. He demanded I clean every piece before I was allowed to sleep. My hands bled from the sharp edges, but I finished before dawn.
This desk, this mess — it was nothing new.
So I gathered everything. Piece by piece. Pen by pen. My silence was louder than their laughter.
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Chapter 32 — The Slap of Paint
Art class. I never trusted art class.
I should have known. The brush was wet when it hit my cheek — a streak of red paint smeared across my skin. The whole class roared with laughter, as though I was the canvas.
Mingkai twirled the brush like a sword. "Looks good on you, Meili."
My skin burned from more than just the paint.
I remembered being fourteen, standing in the kitchen as my mother pressed flour into my hair and face, mocking me for being "as useless as dough." My cousins howled as they clapped their hands, calling me "ghost girl." I washed for hours but the humiliation never left.
Paint washes off. Words do not.
So I took the rag offered to me, wiped once, and sat back down. Silent. Staring forward.
The streak of red dried on my cheek, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me scrub.
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Chapter 33 — The Chair Fall
The last day.
I sat down and the chair slipped from under me. I hit the floor hard, my books scattering, my back aching from the fall. The laughter exploded one final time, echoing against the walls.
Zixin clutched his stomach, howling. "Perfect ending for the worthless girl!"
I stared at the ceiling for a moment. The lights blurred. My body ached, but my chest felt strangely calm.
Because I remembered.
I remembered being fifteen, dragged by my stepfather into the living room, forced to kneel on salt as my family watched, my knees burning raw. That pain had lasted hours. This? A single fall. A bruise. Nothing more.
I pushed myself up slowly, ignoring the ache in my spine. I gathered my books. My legs trembled, but I kept my head high.
This was the last time. The last laugh.
I walked out of the classroom, the sound of their jeers chasing me, but my silence stronger than all of them.
Because deep inside, I knew:
One day, they will regret every bruise, every laugh, every scar they carved into me.
And I will not be the weak girl they thought was broken more at home.
Got it — so the true ending of the school arc won't just be inside the classroom.
---
Chapter 34 — The Ambush
I thought it was over when the bell rang.
I was wrong.
The moment I stepped outside the gates, I saw them waiting. Zixin, Shuyin, Feiyan, Mingkai — all of them. Their shadows stretched long across the pavement, blocking the street like wolves circling prey.
"Leaving already, Meili?" Feiyan's voice was sweet, too sweet. "We weren't finished."
I tightened my grip on my books. My heart hammered, but my face stayed still. "Move," I said softly.
That was all it took.
The first shove sent my books spilling to the dirt. The second sent me crashing to my knees. Laughter filled the air, sharp as broken glass.
A kick struck my side. Another slammed into my back. My ribs burned, breath stolen. I curled instinctively, shielding my head as blows rained down.
Shuyin's shoe ground against my hand, pressing until my knuckles screamed. Mingkai pulled my bag away and emptied it onto the street — pens snapping, papers scattering like feathers in the wind.
"You think you're better than us?" Zixin spat. His voice shook with fury, as if my silence alone offended him. He kicked again, harder this time, the impact vibrating through my bones.
The world blurred — shouts, fists, shoes, the taste of iron in my mouth.
But I didn't scream.
Not once.
Because I remembered worse.
I remembered the night my stepfather caught me sneaking food from the kitchen, his belt striking my back again and again until I couldn't stand. I remembered my mother's voice cold as stone: "She deserves it."
Pain was not new. Humiliation was not new.
What was new was the way my silence made them angrier.
"Say something!" Feiyan shrieked, yanking my hair. "Beg!"
I stared up at her through blood and dirt, lips trembling but locked shut.
They beat me until footsteps in the distance startled them — a teacher, maybe, or a passerby. Like cowards, they scattered, leaving me on the ground, broken and gasping.
The sky above was gray, but strangely clear.
I dragged myself up, one trembling limb at a time. My books were ruined, my body bruised, my pride torn — but I was still standing.
And as I limped away, one thought burned in my chest:
This is the last time they will see me on the ground. One day, I will rise higher than they can ever reach. And when I do… they will choke on their laughter.