After that, Sara just wasn’t the same. She used to be lively and talkative, always smiling, but
now she barely spoke and kept to herself. Suddenly, she started coming home late and jumped at
any chance to go out with her friends—she never said no. It wasn’t like her at all; before, she’d
usually beg off, saying she had homework or needed to study. Noticing all these changes, her
mom, Mrs. Smith, finally asked what was going on, but Sara just brushed her off and gave vague
answers. In the end, Mrs. Smith figured this was just part of growing up.
In the school, once she chose the front desk and kept her hand lifted, she welcomed the sudden
tests. Now she wedged herself into the last seat, hood over her head, even when the room felt
warm, gaze fixed on the wood as if the surface planned to pull her under. Her marks collapsed.
Staff traded anxious looks between classes. Students murmured.
In the end, the principal dialed a number. After her shift, Mrs. Smith arrived, still wearing pale
blue scrubs, greying hair twisted into a loose knot.
She lowered herself into the chair opposite the principal and gripped her handbag as though it
alone kept her afloat.
“Mrs. Smith,” he began, bending forward with the guarded expression adults wear when they try
to keep fear away, “We’re really concerned about Sara. Her marks have dropped hard this term.
She’s… not herself. Jumpy. Quiet. Barely speaks unless someone calls on her. Has anything been
going on at home?”
The woman studied her skirt for a long moment, fingers winding the purse strap until the leather
cried out.
“I… I don’t know” she answered, the word barely audible. “She’s been so withdrawn lately.
Won’t really talk to me anymore. I figured it was just school stress, you know? Exams and all that”
The principal dipped his chin once but his stare stayed hard. “We’re seeing the same thing here.
If there’s something—anything—we need to know. We want to help her before it gets worse”
Mrs. Smith returned the same small motion. “Thank you. I’ll try to talk to her”
Night filled the kitchen with the odor of scorched bread and yesterday's curry. Sara occupied a
chair - textbooks lay open before her but she did not touch them. Her mother placed a cup of tea
mixed with milk on the table then drew a seat so near that their knees nearly met.
“Honey…” She spoke with the gentle tone she had used when Sara was small and woke from
bad dreams. She lifted a stray lock of hair and eased it behind Sara's ear. "You were the brightest
pupil in every class. Now you seem absent. Tell me what troubles you, my child. Speak"
Sara's throat sealed - the sentences waited inside her - hot, weighty, harsh - but they refused to
leave. She sensed her mother's palm glide across her back in the same steady circles as always.
The motion intensified her ache. She rotated her head toward the black window so her mother
would not notice the tear that rolled down.
Her mother wrapped both arms around her and pressed Sara's head beneath her chin. “I’m right
here” she murmured. “Whenever you’re ready. I love you more than anything”
Sara moved her head in assent against the fabric of her mother's shirt but no sound passed her
lips. The hidden truth lodged inside her torso like a brick soaked in ice water.
From that evening onward, Sara slipped away whenever opportunity allowed.
Sara informed her mother that she would remain at the library until late, visit a friend to study or
walk to the park to clear her thoughts - each day she invented a fresh explanation. Every
statement served a single purpose - to leave the house. She spent hours on foot, the soles of her
shoes scraping against concrete, her bag packed with books she never opened. On some
afternoons she settled on the worn wooden bench at the town's edge where farmland began,
filling her chest with icy air until it ached.
Her mother observed the pattern - each evening she posed the question “Where were you this
time?” & Sara produced a new tale. The skill she acquired felt unsettling - the false words
emerged without hesitation, as though a switch controlled them.
Beneath the daily fabrications, Sara maintained one concrete objective - pass her O-level
examinations and depart. She had not located “out” yet. She had only reached the certainty that
the town offered her no air.
