The Psychology lecture hall felt different after Lily stood in front of the class yesterday. The usual buzz of laughter had shifted into whispers tinged with ambiguous tones. Since morning, the moment Lily stepped inside, she could already feel the strange stares stabbing into her back. Stares she couldn't escape, no matter how deeply she bowed her head.
Those voices followed her steps like shadows unwilling to let go.
"Hey, that's the one who drew the baby yesterday."
"Unbelievable, she even got a B. I'm sure something fishy's going on."
"Tsk, so the Malfoy girl knows how to play with the professor's heart, huh."
"Hahaha, if someone mute can get a B, what about those who can talk?"
Lily bit down on her lower lip until it hurt. She didn't turn, didn't respond, only quickened her pace toward the corner seat. But inside, those words etched themselves deep, cutting sharper than the loud laughter yesterday.
She opened her notebook and wrote slowly in black ink:
"Being different doesn't mean being weak.
So why do they always want to see me fall?"
Her hand trembled faintly. Only these small notes kept her holding on.
Class began. Terry entered with calm strides, his black shirt neat despite his slightly messy hair. The room fell silent at once as he placed his books on the desk. His cold presence always managed to press the air down.
"Alright," he said curtly. "We'll continue with presentations. The next five, come forward."
Chairs scraped, students panicked. Yet the noisiest weren't the ones preparing to present—it was those still drowning in gossip about Lily. Their whispers lingered, even though Terry's voice should have silenced them.
Lily bowed her head lower, trying to focus on her notes. But her ears still caught fragments:
"Seriously, so unfair. I studied all night and only got a C."
"Yeah, and that mute girl got a B. Ridiculous."
"Hey, don't be so loud. The prof might hear."
"Let him hear. Let her know nobody likes her."
Her grip on the pen tightened. Her chest ached. She longed to write on the board: "I never asked for grades. I only want fairness." But of course, she couldn't. All she could do was hold back the tears threatening to fall.
Terry's gaze flickered toward her. His cold eyes were hard to read—just coincidence, or did he sense the tension in the class? Yet he said nothing, turning back to the student presenting.
The lecture ended. The faculty hallway burst alive with chatter. Lily walked quickly, bag slung on her shoulder, eyes down. But the whispers followed, louder now, even bold.
"Look, that's the girl from yesterday's show."
"Hahaha, free art class."
"I even recorded it—look, it's all over the group chat."
She glimpsed the screen of a nearby phone. Sure enough, a video clip showed her pointing at the baby sketch. The caption read: "Student or kindergarten kid? lol"
Blood boiled in her veins. Her face burned. She sped up, nearly running out of the building.
Why was I born different? Why does the world always laugh at my weakness?
Her steps halted before a large glass panel on the corridor wall. She looked at her reflection: neatly kept blonde hair, pale face, blue eyes empty, thin lips that would never form sound. From outside, she looked graceful, even flawless. Inside, she was cracked.
She scribbled in her small notebook:
"I want to scream, but the world will never hear."
That evening, Lily chose the library. It was the only place that offered an illusion of safety. Tall shelves, the scent of old paper, the long silence—it let her breathe easier.
She sat by the large window, opened Piaget again. But the words refused meaning, only dancing across the page.
In her notebook, she wrote line after line like a poem:
"I am not a doll.
I am not a joke.
I am only me."
Her pen stopped. Tears threatened, but she quickly wiped them away. She hated appearing weak, even before herself.
Footsteps neared. She looked up.
And there he was—Terry.
He walked slowly between shelves, thick books in hand. His face remained blank, eyes cold, as if detached from everyone. Yet somehow, his gaze met Lily's.
For a heartbeat, time froze.
Lily looked down at once, hoping he would pass. Instead, his steps stopped by her table.
He set three heavy books down in front of her. Titles: Educational Psychology and Learning Theories.
"Read these," he said flatly.
Lily stared at the books, confused. She picked up her pen and wrote quickly:
"Why?"
Terry glanced at the words, then replied, "If you want more than a B, you need stronger theory. A drawing isn't enough."
Her heart pounded. She scribbled again, her hand trembling:
"Why B? Why not C, or even E? Wouldn't that be easier?"
His eyes locked on hers. His face didn't change, but something unspoken flickered in his gaze.
"Because you stood up. Because you tried. That's already more than half this class did."
Lily froze. The words felt foreign. All her life, she had only been judged by her lack, never her effort.
She wrote again: "So… it wasn't pity?"
Terry exhaled softly. For the first time, his voice lost a sliver of its icy edge.
"Pity has no place in my class."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Lily stunned.
She watched his back for a long time. Her heart trembled—confused, relieved, angry, and… something warm.
That night, the student group chat grew wilder. The video of Lily's presentation spread further, now complete with memes and laughing emojis.
"Campus stand-up comedy."
"Art show by Malfoy."
"A new way to present without speaking."
Worse, a blurry photo appeared from the library. Someone had snapped her sitting with heavy books, Terry standing beside her. The caption cut sharper than any whisper:
"Confirmed, that's why she got a B."
Lily read it all on her phone. Her hands shook. Her eyes burned. She wanted to smash the screen.
But she only closed it and wrote instead:
"Silence is better than voices filled with poison."
She shut her eyes tight.
Outside, rain fell. Droplets clung to the dorm window. Lily stared at them for a long time, then wrote again:
"If I had a voice, I would speak as loud as this rain."
The next morning, the entire campus seemed to know her name. Walking the corridor, head bowed, she still felt every glance. Some smirked, some clapped mockingly, others only whispered.
She knew now—she was no longer just "the mute Malfoy girl." She had become the center of gossip.
And somehow, beneath all the pain, a small flame still burned. A flame that whispered: "Let them laugh. I will remain standing."