Zariah sat in the back of the classroom, hoodie on, head down. She wasn't hiding today—she was recovering.
That morning, she'd had her second real therapy session with Ms. Reyes. They didn't talk about everything. Not yet. But she'd written pages. Pages about the pain, the numbness, the invisible pressure crushing her chest every day. And Ms. Reyes read it. Carefully. Without flinching.
"This is grief," she'd said softly.
"This is trauma."
"This is not your fault."
Zariah didn't believe it. Not completely. But she wanted to.
"Zariah, can you read number six?" her math teacher asked.
She blinked, surprised. For a moment, fear struck. She hadn't even opened her book.
But then she looked at the board, saw the problem, and—somehow—her brain kicked in.
She read the answer aloud. Her voice cracked halfway, but she finished it.
Her teacher smiled. "Correct."
A tiny win. But a win.
At lunch, she sat with Jasmine. They didn't talk much. Jasmine just handed her a juice box and some crackers, not asking questions when Zariah only nibbled one.
It was the first thing she'd eaten in two days.
In her third class, she caught herself smiling. Only for a second—something on the projector made her laugh. But she instantly looked down, like the smile had betrayed her sadness.
"You're allowed to feel okay," Ms. Reyes had told her earlier.
"Even when you're still hurting."
That echoed in her head like a truth she'd never known she needed.
Later that night, she sat at her desk—not on the floor, not in her bed—and wrote in the journal again.
I'm scared all the time. But today I didn't break. I'm still here.
She stared at that last sentence.
Then, she underlined it.
I'm still here.