Chapter Eleven: The Bridge Between Us
(Zaria's POV)
By the second month at Alderbridge High, the hallways no longer felt like a maze — just a place I still didn't fully belong to.
I'd learned which stairwell squeaked, which vending machine actually worked, and which classes made my stomach twist with nerves. I wasn't invisible anymore, but I wasn't seen either.
Until I met Emma.
It started on a Wednesday — the kind of morning that smelled like wet pavement and rushed coffee. I walked into English, my notebook half-soaked from the drizzle, and found my usual seat already taken.
The only empty one left was near the window. A girl with messy blond hair and bright green nails looked up and smiled. "You can sit here if you want."
Her voice was warm — not the kind that made me feel small.
"Thanks," I said quietly, sliding into the seat.
She noticed my damp notebook and tore out a few tissues from her bag. "Rain hates backpacks," she said. "Happened to me last week."
I laughed — soft, but real.
Over the next few days, we ended up partners for a short story project. While everyone else scrolled through their phones, Emma leaned forward, tapping her pen against her paper. "So, you said you're from Bangladesh? That's in South Asia, right?"
I nodded cautiously.
"My grandma's from the Philippines," she said, grinning. "So we've got similar heat trauma."
That made me laugh out loud. "You've been?"
"Once," she said. "Couldn't handle the mosquitoes."
Her humor was light, easy — the kind that didn't make fun of me, just made space beside me.
At lunch, she waved me over to her table. I hesitated for a heartbeat before joining. The chatter was loud, but not cruel. Someone asked about my accent, not mockingly, just curious. For once, explaining it didn't feel like a performance.
When school ended, Emma offered to walk me to the bus stop. "So," she said, balancing her coffee cup, "you like books or movies?"
"Books," I said. "They listen better."
She tilted her head. "You should write. You talk like you already do."
I didn't answer — just smiled, because I didn't know how to explain that I did write, only in a language that sometimes felt like a secret.
That night, like always, I called home.
Ma picked up on the second ring. "Ria, my heart," she said, her voice warm with relief. "How was school today?"
I hesitated, then smiled. "Good. I… made a friend."
She lit up. "Really? What's her name?"
"Emma,Emma Colsen" I said, saying it slowly, tasting the newness of it. "She's funny. Kind, too."
Baba's voice called from the background, "Tell her we said hello!"
I laughed. "Maybe one day, Baba."
When the call ended, I just sat there for a moment, phone warm in my hand. It wasn't a big thing — one girl, one small friendship — but it felt like a door had opened somewhere inside me.
The next morning, I brought Emma a packet of mango candies from the Asian store near our apartment.
"Whoa," she said, eyes widening. "These are amazing. What's in them?"
"Sugar," I said. "And nostalgia."
She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her drink.
As the days passed, school didn't feel lighter, exactly — just less lonely. Some people still talked over me. Some still stared when I spoke. But now there was at least one person who didn't make me shrink.
After work that weekend, I sat at the bus stop, ice cream-sticky hands and tired feet, watching the sunset spill gold over Alderbridge.
Maybe that's what friendship was — not fireworks, not grand gestures.
Just someone sitting beside you, even when they don't fully understand your storms, but choose to stay anyway.
That night, I wrote in my journal:
"Home grows wherever someone sees you without asking you to change."
And for the first time, I didn't feel like I was walking between two worlds.
I felt like I was building a bridge.