Amara learned quickly that silence had weight.
It followed her home from school, clinging to her clothes like damp air. The house was empty when she stepped inside, the kind of empty that echoed even when nothing moved. Her mother wouldn't be back until late. She placed her bag down carefully, as if sudden movement might wake something sleeping beneath the floorboards.
She stood in the kitchen, staring at her reflection in the dark window. Her face looked the same—brown eyes, tired shadows beneath them, lips pressed too tightly together—but something behind her eyes felt unfamiliar. Like a stranger had settled in and refused to leave.
Her chest tightened.
A glass on the counter rattled.
Amara froze.
The sound was soft, barely there, but unmistakable. The glass trembled again, then tipped over, rolling onto its side with a dull clink. Water spilled across the counter, dripping slowly onto the floor.
"I didn't touch you," she whispered.
Her voice shook.
She backed away, heart pounding, breath uneven. The room felt charged, like the air before lightning strikes. Her hands tingled, fingers numb and buzzing, as if they didn't fully belong to her anymore.
Stop, she thought.
Please stop.
The sensation faded as suddenly as it came. The room returned to stillness, innocent and quiet, as if nothing had happened at all.
But Amara knew better.
That night, sleep came in fragments. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw movement in the dark—shadows stretching too long, bending where they shouldn't. She dreamed of mirrors cracking, of her reflection smiling when she didn't.
She woke before dawn, soaked in sweat.
At school the next day, everything felt sharper. Sounds were louder. Emotions heavier. Laughter scraped against her nerves like broken glass. She kept her head down, counting her steps, clinging to routine like a lifeline.
In math class, Selam leaned over and whispered, "You okay? You look… pale."
Amara forced a smile. "Just tired."
It was a lie, but lies came easier than explanations.
Across the room, Luca watched her. He wasn't staring—he never stared—but she felt his attention like warmth on her skin. When their eyes met, something flickered between them. Recognition. Curiosity. Concern.
During lunch, it happened again.
A boy at the next table laughed too loudly, mocking someone's shoes. Anger flared in Amara's chest—hot, sudden, uncontrollable. Before she could breathe it away, a tray slid across the table, crashing to the floor.
The room went silent.
Everyone stared.
Amara's heart slammed against her ribs. Her hands were clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. She hadn't touched the tray. She knew she hadn't.
"What the hell was that?" someone muttered.
She stood up too fast, chair scraping the floor, and fled the room. The hallway swallowed her whole, empty and echoing. She pressed her back against the lockers, sliding down until she was sitting on the cold floor, shaking.
There's something wrong with me.
Footsteps approached.
She looked up, breath caught in her throat, but it was Luca.
He crouched in front of her, keeping his distance. "That wasn't an accident, was it?"
Her eyes burned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He studied her face, gentle but unyielding. "You looked scared. Not surprised. Scared."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile.
"I think," he said quietly, "you're carrying something you don't understand yet."
Amara swallowed hard. "You don't know me."
"No," he admitted. "But I know what it looks like to feel like you're breaking."
Something inside her cracked.
The bell rang, sharp and cruel, breaking the moment apart. She stood up, avoiding his eyes, and walked away without another word.
But his words followed her.
That evening, alone in her room, Amara sat on the floor and placed her hands in front of her. Her heart raced.
"Just a little," she whispered.
The air shifted.
Her desk lamp trembled, lifting slightly off the surface before dropping back down with a soft thud.
Amara gasped, tears spilling freely now.
This wasn't imagination.
This wasn't stress.
It was real.
And whatever it was, it was waking up.