After that brief conversation with the teacher, Angel learned to mind her own business.
Months passed, and the once-close friendship between her and Dera dwindled into distant silence. Their exchanges were reduced to short, functional sentences like, "What did the teacher say again?" or "Can I see your notebook?"
If Angel ever spoke more than that, it was only to say, "The teacher said this," or "The teacher said that."
One day, Dera took the initiative.
"Angel, let's talk after school."
It wasn't about classwork. It was about the past—about them.
"No. I'm busy," Angel replied firmly, not even looking up.
Dera, disappointed, didn't push further.
The next day, Dera came to school with her bag full of snacks. Angel had none; her parents preferred homemade food to processed snacks.
"I have a lot. Want some?" Dera offered kindly.
Though tempted, Angel refused. She wasn't the begging type. Pride or not, she'd rather starve.
"My sister will bring my lunch during the break. I'll eat then," she said.
Dera's expression faltered. She had only wanted to be kind, to reconnect, even though she knew it was her fault. Still, it hurt to be rejected.
"You don't have any snacks with you. And I have more than enough. I don't mind sharing."
Angel sighed, looking at her before replying, carefully but coldly.
"I don't know why you're doing this. But I advise you to stop. Just like your father, my sisters have warned me not to associate with you. So let's respect the decision of the elders and act like strangers.
I'll respond when necessary. I always have—even when I know what your intentions are. But for heaven's sake, don't get me into trouble."
She spoke as though Dera's feelings meant nothing. Or maybe she just pretended they didn't.
What gives?
Dera hadn't cared about her feelings when she hurled those hurtful words. But Angel hadn't been cruel. Even as a child, she had tried to act mature.
And so the final year of nursery school approached, and their friendship remained like fire and ice—except Angel was both the fire and the ice.
Strangely, she didn't mind. She had always preferred solitude. It was comforting.
But on graduation day in Nursery Three, Angel finally allowed Dera a long conversation—for the first time in what felt like forever.
"I'm sorry. Can't you forgive me?" Dera asked gently.
"I have nothing against you, Dera. So I don't see what there is to forgive."
"But… but you ignored me. Pretended I didn't exist. Do you know how hurt I was?"
"Maybe you were right. Maybe I'm a bad influence. That's why I stayed away. Your results improved. You ranked just below me. I thought maybe I was the reason you weren't doing well."
"Nonsense," Dera replied quickly. "I studied hard because I wanted to prove to my father that you weren't the problem. That you were a good friend. I was so focused on proving him wrong that I didn't realize I was pushing you away.
I even went to your sister to beg her to help me. But she said only you could forgive me. She told me you cried that day—not because I said we shouldn't talk, but because I insulted you. And that was what she couldn't forgive.
She said her lovely, lonely sister was being accused of something she wasn't."
Angel froze. No one had told her that.
Was she really that hurt that her sisters had been hurt too?
Her older siblings might be strict, but they were never inconsiderate.
And now she understood why they hadn't told her. She had always masked her emotions so well—even around her parents. That's why her sisters started monitoring her, to help ease their parents' worries.
They remembered the day Angel came home looking like she'd been tortured. She said nothing. It wasn't until her mother tried to bathe her that she saw the marks—hideous scars on her back and legs.
When asked, Angel had fidgeted, whispering, "I'll be flogged if I tell."
Her mother threatened to send her to the village to live with chickens if she didn't speak. Only then did she open up—about the bribes she refused to pay, and the punishments she endured.
Her father had been ready to storm the school. But her mother stopped him, fearing he might do something dangerous. She went herself.
Even so, she nearly lost control when the teacher dismissed her daughter's suffering like it was nothing.
Angel was the only fair-skinned child in the family—while her siblings were either caramel or dark-skinned, and only the third was chocolate-skinned. That made her stand out even more. And it explained why her family protected her so fiercely.
"Only if you'd sweeten your words a little," Dera teased.
Angel rolled her eyes. "As young as you are…"
"Hey! I'm a year older. Respect your elders, you little child." There was no malice—just playful banter.
"Hmph! You should introduce me to Korean movies. I heard your sister talking about them."
"Yeah, we just started watching them. But your dad might hate me."
"Whatever. As long as you're not dragging me to a pub or a club, or teaching me to smoke, he'll be fine. Let him fume."
Angel smiled. That was the best graduation gift she could have received.
And from that day on—for fifteen whole years—they were inseparable.
They cared for and protected each other, even when a rift tried to pull them apart again.
Angel knew that Dera regretted everything—the words she believed, the advice she took from someone who never understood them.