The alarm on her phone buzzed harshly, dragging her out of a foggy sleep. Her head throbbed, the remnants of rum and cigarette smoke lingering like a dull ache behind her eyes. She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head, wishing the world would forget her tonight existed. But it wouldn't. Not when her parents had already decided her fate.
"You're going to Mexico today," her father had said last night, calm but final. Her mother had nodded, the certainty in her eyes cutting deeper than any argument could. There was no room for negotiation. No room for excuses. Their plan was set, and she had no choice but to comply.
Her suitcase lay at the foot of the bed, neatly packed, absurdly organized. Clothes folded, shoes aligned. The messiness of her Havana life-chaotic parties, neon lights, music, laughter-was now compressed into this small, sterile bag. She tugged at the sleeve of her hoodie nervously and forced herself to get up. She wasn't ready. She would never be ready.
The taxi waited outside. She stepped out into the cool morning, the streets of Havana quieter than usual, the remnants of last night's chaos dissolved into the early sun. She slid into the backseat, her suitcase wedged between her legs, and exhaled sharply.
The driver, a middle-aged man with a worn baseball cap, nodded briefly in her direction and started down the street. Amina stared out the window, the city blurring into muted shades of gold and grey. She didn't look back for her parents. They weren't there, hadn't been. Their absence pressed down on her chest like a weight. Relief and panic tangled together-she could scream, cry, beg, but the taxi windows sealed her in. Alone.
The driver spoke once or twice, clipped Spanish, giving directions. She barely heard him. Her mind was consumed with the city slipping behind her and the unknown waiting ahead. Havana felt smaller, duller, stripped of the music, the salt air, the chaos that had made her feel alive. She gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white, heart pounding. She wasn't ready to leave, and yet she had no choice.
At the airport, the taxi came to a stop. Amina dragged her suitcase from the backseat, rolling it along the polished floor of the terminal. Families bustled past, travellers shouted into phones, luggage clattered against tiles, and she felt entirely invisible and painfully exposed. The check-in desk was overwhelming, the line slow, and she moved through it robotically, her parents nowhere in sight.
The plane ride was long and suffocating. Amina pressed her forehead to the window, staring at the endless blue of the Caribbean, then the patchwork greens and browns of Mexico below. She tried to cling to memories of Havana-the warm chaos, the parties, the reckless freedom-but each mile between her and home stretched like a razor across her chest.
When they landed, a sleek black sedan waited. Two women in crisp blazers greeted her politely and directed her to the car. No parents. Just her and authority waiting to swallow her whole. She slid into the backseat, dragging her suitcase behind her, and watched Mexico City stretch out under the rising sun. The streets were wide, clean, orderly, a far cry from the messy, vibrant streets she loved.
St. Celeste's Academy appeared like a fortress as the car pulled up. Pale stone walls, high windows, and a perfectly manicured garden stretched before her. Statues of saints gazed down in silence, judgment clear in their stony eyes. The courtyard was eerily empty, the silence pressing against her ears like wax. Amina felt small. She felt trapped. She felt… furious.
A woman in a grey blazer stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "You must be Amina Elias," she said, voice firm. "We've been expecting you. Follow me, please."
Amina nodded mutely, dragging her suitcase behind her. The corridors smelled faintly of disinfectant and waxed floors, their echoes sharp in the still air. Everything was sterile, suffocating, and utterly unfamiliar. She could hear the whispers of the girls in uniform, but no one looked at her twice. She was an intruder in this perfect, controlled world.
Her assigned room was small and cold. Two twin beds, a single dresser, and a window overlooking the perfectly trimmed garden outside. Amina dropped her suitcase onto one of the beds with a thump and slumped down, feeling the weight of the coming days settle into her bones.
A soft knock at the door startled her.
"Hello, I'm your roommate," said a quiet, polite voice. A girl stepped in, hair neatly braided, eyes curious but reserved. "I'm Clara. Nice to meet you."
Amina managed a weak smile. "Hi."
Clara set down her bag, glancing around the room. "It's… smaller than I imagined," she said softly. Amina noticed a flicker of nervous energy behind her calm exterior. Clara was cautious, obedient, the kind of girl who would follow rules without question. And that… was interesting. Dangerous.
The rest of the day passed in a blur: tours, introductions, rules drilled into her like iron rods-lights out at ten, prayers at dawn, chapel at eight, breakfast at seven. Each instruction tightened the walls around her, suffocating her in their pristine rigidity. Amina moved through it all like a ghost, counting the minutes until she could retreat to her room, where thoughts of Havana, of rebellion, of music and freedom swirled in her mind.
That night, lying on the unfamiliar mattress, she thought of Clara again. Quiet. Careful. Perfect for following rules… perfect for bending rules with her, if she wanted to.
Amina stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with her eyes, imagining them as pathways out of the suffocating walls. She thought of the streets of Havana, alive with colour and music, of last night's laughter still ringing in her ears. Here, everything smelled like disinfectant and quiet judgment. She could almost hear her parents' lectures echoing in the empty corridors: discipline, structure, guidance. She hated those words. They felt like chains. And yet, even as fear pressed against her chest, a spark of excitement flickered-a thought that maybe, just maybe, she could find loopholes in the rules, bend the walls around her, and pull someone else into the chaos. Maybe she could bring a little Havana with her, even inside this silent, perfect prison.
Sleep came fitfully, tangled with dreams of laughter, neon lights, music, and the bitter taste of freedom she wasn't ready to give up. Tomorrow, St. Celeste's would begin. Amina Elias, Havana's reckless daughter, was trapped inside its walls.
But she wasn't defeated. Not yet.