Tracy....
There's something about the way Laila looks out of windows. Like she's somewhere else entirely — and I'm the only one watching her leave.
I don't think she knows how often I look at her in class. Not stare. Just… glance. Subtly. It's something like watching the sky when no one else is looking. Safe. Quiet.
But lately, it doesn't feel quiet anymore.
---
Laila isn't loud like the others. She doesn't laugh in high-pitched echoes or wave her hand in every discussion. She listens. She absorbs. And then, when she speaks, it's like a still lake finally rippling.
I started noticing how her fingers tap lightly against her desk when she's thinking, or how her mouth twitches slightly when she's trying not to smile.
I shouldn't be noticing those things.
But I am.
---
At home, I tried writing again. It's become a ritual lately. After prayers. After thoughts I can't explain.
Today's entry:
> "In a small town where religion divides and silence protects, two girls begin to feel something they shouldn't.
One prays with a cross pressed to her chest.
The other bows with the world at her feet.
And between them—
A forbidden tenderness neither planned for."
I reread it and felt like the ink was accusing me.
---
During dinner, Mama said I was quiet again.
"You've been distracted lately," she said, cutting through a thick slice of cassava. "Don't forget why we raised you right. This world is testing all of us."
I nodded. I knew what she meant.
She'd never say it, but she didn't want me too close to Laila.
Not just because Laila's Muslim.
But because I'm me — and Mama knows I'm… different.
---
After dinner, I went outside for air. The wind was cool. The stars were bright above the church spire.
I kept thinking about her.
Not in a dreamy way. Just in a real way. Like she was becoming a part of my every day without permission. I wanted to ask if she was okay. I noticed how her shoulders seemed heavier lately. She'd been quieter. Not in her usual way, but in a sadder way.
I thought about walking over. Saying something. Asking, just once.
But I didn't.
Instead, I wrote.
> "You're the kind of silence I could sit beside forever and never feel alone."
---