Riya washed her hands longer than necessary.
The water was cold, but she didn't adjust it.
She let it run over her fingers until her skin felt tight, numb, as if the feeling might drain out with the water if she waited long enough.
The bathroom was empty. It always was this early.
She stared at her reflection, at the way her eyes refused to settle on one place. Every time she blinked, the sound came back — sharp and flat against the hallway walls.
She pressed her palms against the sink.
I didn't mean to, she told herself.
The words felt thin. Rehearsed.
She had said them before.
Riya dried her hands carefully, folded the paper towel, and dropped it into the bin. She checked the door before leaving, listening for footsteps that weren't there.
Her body stayed tense anyway, like it had a beef with the silence.
In the hallway, the lockers looked the same as always. Too clean. Too quiet. Like nothing had happened at all.
She avoided looking at the spot where it had happened.
If she didn't look at it, maybe it wouldn't be real.
She made her way to the classroom. Her steps barely made a sound as she dragged her feet along the floor. One hand hung uselessly at her side, the other gripping the strap of her bag hard enough to ache. She sat down carefully, trying not to let the weight of her body collapse on the chair.
The classroom was empty.
For a moment.
Then students trickled in. One by one. Then in small clusters. In minutes, nearly half the room was filled with low voices and scraping chairs.
Riya glanced back at the second seat from the right — the one at the edge of the room.
It was an empty seat.
It was Merlin's seat.
He wasn't there yet. Normally, that wouldn't have mattered. Merlin was always late. Late enough that teachers had stopped commenting on it. Late enough that it had become expected.
Riya closed her eyes and exhaled, forcing herself to face forward.
She told herself not to think about it.
She tried to think of something else. Anything.
A memory surfaced anyway.
A small bird, barely breathing, cradled in her hands. Its chest fluttering weakly against her palms. Merlin standing beside her, quiet, watching like he was afraid the world would break if he spoke too loudly. We have to help it, he whispered.
A voice cut through the memory.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Her chest tightened.
She remembered looking up — an authority figure looming over them, shadow stretching too far across the ground.
"That bird won't help you," the voice had said. "You waste time on meaningless things. Religion. Animals. And you always drag him into it."
"Stop it," Merlin had said before being pushed to the side. She remembered seeing a palm moving towards her and the feeling of sweaty palms, dryness in her mouth and the weakness in her knees.
The memory snapped.
A sharp sound echoed through the room.
Riya flinched, ducking instinctively, her shoulders folding in on themselves.
Silence followed.
"Are you alright?" the teacher asked.
Her heart was racing. Too fast. Too loud. She realized she was back in the classroom. No bird. No raised hand. Just the cane resting against the desk, harmless now, as if it had never moved.
"I'm fine," Riya said quietly.
A few students snickered. The sound slid under her skin. She didn't look at them.
She looked back at Merlin's seat.
Still empty.
Something cold settled in her stomach.
Now she knew something was wrong.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" she asked quickly, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself.
The teacher studied her for a second too long.
"Permission granted."
The moment she stepped into the hallway, she started walking fast — then faster — until walking wasn't enough anymore. She broke into a run. Her breathing turned shallow, uneven. The walls seemed closer than before, the ceiling lower.
She didn't know where she was going.
Not yet.
She slowed near the stairwell, one hand brushing the railing.
If she went back now, she could still sit down. The bell would ring. The lesson would start. No one would ask questions.
That was what she was supposed to do.
His voice surfaced in her mind — calm, controlled, certain.
Stay away from him.
Don't distract him.
Don't get in his way.
He hadn't raised his voice when he said it. He hadn't threatened her. He hadn't needed to.
She understood what would happen if she failed.
Riya swallowed, then pushed herself forward.
As she ran, the words came back to her.
Not imagined.
Written.
I'm leaving at sunset.
Her pace faltered.
The voice in her head wasn't hers.
It was Merlin's.
I'm tired of living in a place where people are owned.
Her fingers curled as she ran, nails biting into her palm. She remembered the letter tucked beside the flowers in her locker. How her hands had shaken as she read it. How she had folded the paper too tightly, like force might make the words less real.
If I stay, they'll turn me into him.
She had told herself he was exaggerating.
She had wanted him to be wrong.
There's a way out. I found it.
Riya stopped short, grabbing the nearest wall to steady herself. Her vision blurred at the edges.
By the lake. Where the waste ends.
Her stomach dropped.
She knew that place.
Cold understanding slid into place, sharp and unforgiving.
That was the reason for the flowers... No for the letter behind them.
That was why he hadn't denied it.
So why had she raised her hand? Her actions now seemed unreasonable.
The slap replayed in her mind, slow and vivid.
The pressure.
The warnings.
The way his father had looked at her — not angry, not threatening.
Commanding.
Keep him in line.
You don't get in his way.
Riya pushed off the wall and ran again.
This time, she didn't slow.
As she ran, another line from the letter surfaced — one she buried deeper than the rest.
I want you to come with me.
Her breath caught.
Because you're my only friend.
She slowed, just for a second.
The wind cut across the path, cold and sudden. Her eyes burned. Water slipped from one of them before she could stop it, blurring her vision.
She told herself it was the wind.
She told herself it meant nothing.
But the ache in her chest came sharp and immediate, tightening until it was hard to breathe. There was no excuse for that. No way to pretend it belonged to the weather or the cold or the run.
Was she a friend to begin with? She asked herself.
The words pressed down on her harder than the order ever had.