"Ugh! Another day at school."
Sarah dragged herself toward the bus stop, her backpack hanging heavily from one shoulder. She hated going to this college. Everything about it felt unfamiliar—the crowded hallways, the noisy classrooms, the students who stared at her as if she didn't belong.
It wasn't like this in the village.
Back there, school had been different. Her teachers knew her name, her friends understood her, and learning had felt exciting instead of exhausting. She still remembered running through the dusty lanes after class, laughing with her friends, and spending afternoons beneath the old mango tree while they finished their homework together.
But everything had changed after they moved to the city.
The streets were louder, the buildings were taller, and life seemed to move much faster. Even her parents didn't understand how difficult it was for her.
"Mum and Dad will never understand," she muttered. "I'm trying. I really am. But I just don't fit into this new world."
She clenched her fists as she thought about the girls in her class. They were always whispering when she walked past, laughing behind their hands, and finding some excuse to embarrass her.
"What have I even done to them?" she asked angrily. "Why do they always target me?"
She kicked a small stone across the pavement.
"Forget about it, Sarah," she told herself, taking a deep breath. "Focus on art class today. It's your favorite. Don't let a few horrible people ruin the only thing you enjoy in this awful place."
Then she glanced at her watch.
"Oh no! I missed the bus again!"
Sarah grabbed the straps of her backpack and began running. Her shoes slapped against the pavement as she hurried toward the bus stop.
"Sarah! Come on! You're going to be late!" she shouted at herself. "Run faster!"
Just as she reached the corner, the bus began to pull away. Sarah waved frantically, and the driver spotted her in the rearview mirror. With a loud hiss, the bus stopped.
"Thank goodness!" she gasped, climbing aboard.
She stumbled down the aisle, still trying to catch her breath. Unfortunately, every seat was already occupied. Students filled the bus, talking loudly, laughing, and scrolling through their phones.
"At least I didn't miss it completely," she whispered.
Standing awkwardly near the back, Sarah put on her headphones and turned up her favorite song. The familiar melody filled her ears, pushing the noise of the bus into the background. She leaned against the window and watched the city blur past.
For a few minutes, she could forget the girls, the unfamiliar school, and the lonely feeling that followed her everywhere.
Maybe art class would be different today.
Maybe, just maybe, things would get better.
Finally, the bus came to a stop in front of the school. I gathered my things and stepped off, trying to ignore the nervous feeling that had settled in my stomach. I felt anxious, just like I did every morning, but there was also a small spark of excitement inside me.
Today was art class.
I survived the entire first period, which felt painfully long and boring. I kept glancing at the clock, waiting for the bell to ring. Finally, it did.
The moment I heard it, I gathered my books and hurried toward the art room.
There were only a few students inside. The room smelled faintly of paint, paper, and wooden tables. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, falling across rows of blank canvases waiting to be filled.
"Perhaps people here aren't very artistic," I whispered to myself with a small giggle.
Then I shrugged.
"Actually, it's probably for the best. My introverted personality prefers fewer people anyway."
The teacher asked us to gather around while she showed us our workstations. Each canvas had been placed on a small easel, with a table beside it holding brushes, pencils, palettes, and different-colored paints. My eyes lit up when I saw everything.
Painting had been my hobby since I was very young. Whenever I held a brush, I felt as if I could escape into another world—one where I could turn my thoughts, emotions, and memories into colors and shapes. Sometimes I painted things I saw. Other times, I painted whatever existed in my imagination.
Painting calmed me. It made me feel peaceful, as if the noise inside my head had finally gone quiet.
I couldn't wait to see how my painting would turn out.
Then, suddenly, the classroom door opened.
She walked in—the girl who seemed to enjoy bullying every new student. My excitement immediately faded.