People always said she was "quiet."
They never asked why.
She walked through the hallway like a ghost — present, but never really seen. Laughter echoed around her, lockers slammed, voices blended into noise, but none of it touched her. Not anymore.
Once, she used to talk.
Once, she used to smile.
Once, she used to trust.
But that was before.
Before the whispers.
Before the stares.
Before the memories she never chose to carry.
Now, she had mastered the art of silence.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She didn't open it.
She already knew how this story goes — curiosity leads to regret.
Instead, she stared outside the classroom window. The sky looked normal. Peaceful. As if the world had never done anything wrong.
Funny.
Because her world had ended many times, and no one noticed.
Not her classmates.
Not the teachers.
Not even the people who once called themselves "friends."
They remembered a version of her that didn't exist anymore.
The "dramatic girl."
The "weird girl."
The "too sensitive girl."
But no one remembered the nights she stayed awake, replaying everything.
No one remembered how trust slowly turned into fear.
And fear into numbness.
So she stopped explaining.
Stopped defending.
Stopped feeling.
It was easier that way.
A new country.
A new life.
A new name on the attendance list.
That's what she told herself when she got the acceptance letter.
"Starting over," they called it.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
You can change places.
You can change people.
You can even change your future.
But the past?
It follows quietly.
Like a shadow that never asks permission.
And hers was closer than she thought.