After that night, my world shrank into silence.
The phone was locked away again. Wi-Fi disappeared. Even Appa changed his password, leaving me with no way to sneak online. Every corner of the house felt like a prison cell, walls closing in on me.
School was no escape either. My second brother kept his eyes on me there too—every step, every glance, like a shadow I couldn't shake. I knew I couldn't risk the public phone anymore. One wrong move and everything would get worse.
So what else could I do?
Desperation made me brave. I gave his number to a trusted guy friend and begged him to call. "Tell him... tell him I was beaten," I whispered, my throat tight.
Later, when my friend told me what happened, my chest clenched.
"He said... beaten??" he repeated my love's voice, the shock in it, the care. I could almost hear him myself, the way his tone would change, the way his heart must've sunk hearing I was hurt.
I didn't know when I'd get to hear him again. I didn't know when I'd be able to speak to him with my own voice. But I asked my friend to tell him one thing for me:
"I'll wait. No matter what."
The next day, after school, my friend pulled me aside. His words were like drops of water in a drought.
"He told you to take care. He really meant it."
Tears stung my eyes, but my heart steadied. Even in silence, even through others, his care reached me. And that was enough to keep me going.