Kairo's pov
Perfection is exhausting.
That's what no one ever tells you.
I sat at my sleek white desk, flipping through my notes for the umpteenth time, pretending to care about chemical equations when really, my mind was somewhere else. The desk was spotless, of course it was, because my mother wouldn't stand for anything less.
The entire room screamed curated elegance: cream walls, framed prints, the faint lavender scent from one of those overpriced diffusers. A showroom more than a bedroom. Sometimes I felt like a mannequin inside my own life.
From downstairs, I heard her voice. My mother. "Kairo! Have you finished revising for the math paper? Do not waste time, girl. Every second counts."
Every. Second. Counts.
Her favourite mantra. Moms!
I rolled my eyes but didn't answer. She would storm up in a minute if she really wanted to. For now, silence was my rebellion.
But my chest buzzed with another kind of restlessness.
Coco.
The thought slipped in uninvited. I hated that it did. I hated that I noticed the way her curls bounced when she walked, the stubborn set of her jaw when she tried to act like she wasn't intimidated, the way her voice dipped when she was reading something aloud. And most of all, I hated that I couldn't shake the image of those faint bruises on her wrist , like someone had clamped down too hard.
It wasn't my business. I told myself that again and again. She wasn't my friend. She wasn't anything to me, except the girl I'd been saddled with for tutoring. Still, the marks lingered in my mind, like fingerprints pressed into glass.
The Tutoring Session
She arrived right on time, as usual. Always punctual, as if she couldn't afford to risk offending me, or maybe, offending the system that had placed her in my orbit. She stood at the door with her worn-out bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting to the floor like she was bracing herself.
I smirked automatically, the armour I always wore. "Wow, thrift store chic again? Do they have a loyalty card for that?"
Her lips twitched, not in amusement but restraint. She didn't bite back, she never did, and I hated that, because it made me feel like a school-yard bully. I also expected that she wouldn't bite back. Uugh!
What I didn't expect was my gaze slipping, unbidden, to her wrists as she placed her books on my desk. The sleeves of her sweater tugged back just enough to reveal the faint crescent shadows. Nail marks and bruises. Small, but not invisible.
Something twisted inside me.
I quickly snapped my gaze up before she noticed. Sarcasm rushed to my lips like a shield. "So, did you even look at the assignment this time, or are you here to let me do all the heavy lifting again?"
Coco just hummed softly, eyes fixed on the page. "I looked," she said. No spark, no defensiveness, just quiet steadiness.
We started the lesson. Normally, I got a kick out of catching her mistakes, out of reminding her she was on my turf, under my guidance, but today… it felt hollow. She was sharper than I gave her credit for. When she leaned over my essay draft, her brows knit in concentration, and she muttered corrections under her breath , not insults, just genuine, thoughtful feedback.
I watched her lips move as she whispered something about "resilience being stronger when it's tested." She didn't even realize she'd said it out loud.
Resilience.
My chest tightened. What did she know about resilience?
I thought of her wrists. The shadows under her eyes. The way she flinched sometimes at sudden noises. More than she wanted anyone to know, clearly.
Cracks in the Ice
My mother's voice cut through the air again, sharp as glass. "Kairo! Make sure you've done at least two past papers after your guest leaves. You are not wasting precious time!"
Coco's eyes flicked up at me, just for a second, and I caught it , that flash of understanding. Not pity, but recognition.
The ice cracked.
I snapped my pen shut harder than necessary, pretending to be annoyed. "She's obsessed with my grades. You'd think if I cured cancer it still wouldn't be enough."
Coco gave the smallest smile. It wasn't mocking, it wasn't patronizing. Just… warm. Like she knew exactly what I meant. And that terrified me more than if she'd laughed.
"Pressure makes diamonds." she murmured, eyes back on the paper.
I wanted to scoff. I wanted to dismiss it, but instead, I stared at her, really stared. Her skin carried the faintest constellation of healing marks, like stories she would never tell to anyone. Her clothes were worn but neat, cared for despite their age. And her handwriting, careful, deliberate, as if she couldn't afford mistakes anywhere in her life.
She was everything I wasn't supposed to notice.
The Slip
"Why do you try so hard?" I blurted.
Coco blinked, startled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I hesitated, fumbling for my usual sharpness. "You don't have to. Nobody expects much from you, right? Not with… you know."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. For a second, I thought she'd snap at me, but instead, she said softly, "Because I expect it of myself."
The words lodged in my chest like a splinter.
She went back to writing, calm as ever, but my brain buzzed, like really buzzed. Nobody ever said things like that in my world. People did things to impress parents, teachers, universities. Not themselves. Never themselves.
I stared so long I almost forgot to speak. Finally, the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
"You're not what I expected." I couldn't tell her I thought she was cool and strong.
Her pen froze mid-word. She looked up, startled, searching my face for sarcasm, but there wasn't any this time. I felt heat climb up my neck, so I grabbed my notebook and pretended to scribble furiously, as if I hadn't just cracked open my own armour.
Departure
The session ended. She gathered her things carefully, like every item mattered. My gaze caught, once again, on the faint bruises at her wrist as she zipped her bag. She didn't hide them, not intentionally, anyway, and she didn't explain.
I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to, but the words stuck in my throat. What if she laughed at me? What if she shut down? Worse, what if she told me the truth, and I couldn't handle it?
So I stayed silent.
"See you tomorrow," she said simply, voice soft but steady.
I nodded, watching her walk out of my perfect, suffocating room, her imperfect, unpolished-self, trailing behind her like sunlight through cracks.
Night Thoughts
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, lavender diffuser mocking me with its fake calm. My phone buzzed with messages that I didn't care about.
All I saw were her wrists. Her quiet smile. Her kind words: I expect it of myself.
For the first time in forever, my insults had dried up before they even formed, and I didn't know what scared me more, the bruises she carried, or the fact that I was starting to care. Really care!!!