And time passes… just as heavily as always, while I stare at the classroom clock.
I hear the frogs singing from the lake behind the school, their voices more captivating than my geography teacher's. I blink a few times, chasing away the drowsiness that's settled in. No one says anything, but I know most of them are just waiting, impatiently, for the bell to ring.
But me… what am I waiting for?
I lift my hand from my cheek and watch as everyone starts packing their things with a forced cheerfulness, saying goodbye to the teacher. When the commotion dies down a little, I gather my things and head toward the door—but I'm stopped by the teacher's dry, lifeless voice:
"Liliana, stay a moment. I'd like to talk to you."
I press my lips together in displeasure, though my reply is a quiet yes, and I walk hesitantly toward his desk. The dark, deep circles under his eyes betray sleepless nights, and his slightly trembling hands make me keep a respectful distance, so I don't upset him. He seemed down… more than usual. And I could only guess what he was about to say—until the truth came out.
"Do you know what you got on your last test, Liliana?"
"Yes…" I whisper.
I knew it was a low grade—barely passing. Still, I was grateful it was a pass at all. Geography wasn't my strong suit. In fact, nothing was anymore, not after everything that happened.
"Liliana…"
He stood from his desk and leaned on it, locking eyes with me. His blue eyes were cold, sharp—cutting right into my soul.
"I know you've gone through something terrible, and we all understand that. But you're wasting time by standing still. You're ruining your future with grades like this."
He paused.
"I have no choice but to speak with your parents about this."
I looked around for something… anything… maybe the right words to change his mind. But I lowered my gaze, saying nothing. I wasn't afraid of what might happen because of the bad grades. My fear was that nothing would change even after he spoke with them. Because they don't care. Neither of them. And the thought that I could do anything and provoke no reaction left a hollow pit in my stomach.
"I understand. I'll give them the message."
I excused myself and walked out slowly, heavily. I felt like I was suffocating, the voices in my head spinning wildly.
What's going to happen now? What are you going to do? Is he really going to call them? What if they don't care at all?
Or worse—what if they actually do?
Everything was confusing.
I haven't felt like myself since I lost my brother.
Arthur had been the family's hope. He was everything. He was my tutor, my dad's support at the bar, and my mom's cheerleader in all she did.
After he died, nothing was the same.
I keep trying to find the girl I used to be when he was still alive.
At home, we don't talk about him. We're not allowed—because of Dad.
He believes that wounds forgotten will soon heal. But it's like sweeping filth under the rug—those invisible wounds only fester.
I hold my backpack in one hand and my umbrella in the other.
By the look of the sky, rain could start any second.
I walk past lit-up houses, watching the smoke curl from their chimneys.
I stop to tie my shoelace, but my mind is still tangled in that earlier conversation.
I recognize Aunt Dorothy's beauty salon.
Home is just a few steps away now… that place with the same stairs and the same four walls that at night are more interesting than sleep.
A small figure stumbles out of the salon.
She had her hair in a tight bun and wore small heels I knew too well.
I stop. I study her carefully.
She wore a worn, but clean and perfectly ironed blazer, with a matching knee-length skirt in navy blue. A few strands had slipped from her bun, and one of her heels was broken.
She held a plastic bag, but it looked like it might slip from her fingers at any moment.
"…Mom?" I ask, uncertain.
She turns abruptly, almost falling, and drops the bag.
Her eyes squint as she tries to make out who I am.
The buttons of her blazer are mismatched, and her skirt has a nasty tear that only adds to the disarray.
I stand in front of her, my heart ready to leap out of my chest.
She looked pitiful. Her lipstick was smeared across her face, mascara streaking her cheeks.
And in that moment, Arthur's image flashed in my mind—he would've looked at her with shame. With disgust.
"What did you do, Mom?" I whispered, my voice trembling with tears.
"What?"
"Why were you at Aunt Dorothy's?" I managed to ask, though I already knew. I felt it.
"Well… your father hasn't come home. We didn't have any money… you didn't leave any."
I swallowed my tears and stepped closer to her. I helped her stand, then picked up the bag.
I peeked inside, cautious.
Bags of white powder.
More tears slid down my cheeks. I bit my lower lip and gently urged her toward home.
"You promised you wouldn't do this again…" I said under my breath.
She pulled away from me and threw a sharp glance my way.
"And what do you expect me to do, huh? This is the only thing that helps me escape from you people. Do you have any idea how hard it is to see you every day? You and your father… in that house… without Arthur. Without my boy! Who even are you?"
Her reaction froze me. My shoulders sank in quiet defeat.
"Now you know why I don't give you money anymore." I spat the words back, just as sharp.
"Let's see what Dad says when he gets home."
"You better not dare say a word!" she shouted, yanking the bag from my hands and stumbling off.
I'm scared.
I'm scared of everything that's happening.
My mother just abandoned me, and I'm left there—on the street, upset, confused, terrified of what's coming next.
What if Dad's already home?
What if he knows what Mom did?
Dad isn't a saint either. Far from it.
Ever since Arthur died, he's been drinking more and more.
And since he owns a bar, he can drink until he forgets. Until he forgets everything.
Because Dad wants to forget and run from the pain. But the truth is…
We're all running.
Because we all want to forget.
Everyone wants to forget you, Arthur.