The Day We Started Over

Rain had a way of making Aisha feel like the world understood her. Not the people in it — never them — but the sky. The sky cried the way she wished she was allowed to. That Monday morning, the rain had fallen so heavily the gutters overflowed, the streets turned muddy, and students shuffled into school soaked and annoyed. But Aisha? She walked slowly, letting every raindrop wash over her headscarf, her lashes, her uniform… like she was rinsing off everything she didn’t know how to say. People always thought she was quiet because she was shy. But silence was never about shyness. It was survival. Her eyes carried entire stories she never told anyone — stories of nights spent awake listening to her father break bottles in the sitting room; days spent stepping over shards of glass while pretending everything was fine; months spent trying to grieve her mother even though nobody at home talked about her anymore. Her life felt like a room with no windows. And every day, she woke up hoping someone would open a door. She reached the school gate. As usual, the noise hit her first — girls laughing too loudly, boys arguing about football, teachers shouting at latecomers. But she floated through it all like a shadow nobody noticed. Inside her classroom, she sat at the third desk by the window — her usual spot. She liked watching the outside world, the trees bending in the wind, the tiny market women dragging their umbrellas, the danfo buses honking like they were in a battle. Anything was better than listening to the fake friendships and gossip around her. “Aisha, why you always forming serious? You no dey ever smile?” She ignored the girl’s voice. She’d heard all that before — boring, dry, proud, too serious, emotionless. People loved naming wounds they never helped her heal from. She opened her notebook, but her mind drifted — like always — to her mother. She remembered the smell of her perfume, soft and flowery. She remembered the warm hum she made while cooking. She remembered how she’d sit on Aisha’s bed at night and tell her, “You feel too deeply. That’s a gift, even when it hurts.” But once her mother died, everything that once felt safe turned into something painful. Her father changed. The man who used to make her laugh now barely spoke and often drank until he couldn’t stand straight. He stopped bathing regularly. Stopped eating well. Stopped caring about everything — including her. So Aisha learned silence. Not because she wanted to… But because the world around her stopped listening. She sighed and flipped a page. The rain outside grew heavier. The teacher arrived and class began. But halfway through the lesson, something strange happened. A knock on the classroom door. Everyone fell silent. Visitors during this period were rare. The principal stepped in with a teenage boy standing behind him. And the moment Aisha saw him, her heart paused — not in a romantic way, not yet, just… a shock. He looked like someone who didn’t belong here. Not because he was fine — though he was — but because pain clung to him like a shadow. His hair was slightly messy, his uniform too neat, like someone ironed it for him with love and desperation. He held a sketchbook close to his chest, fingers gripping the edges like it was the only stable thing in his life. The principal introduced him: “This is a new student, Kamal Ibrahim. He transferred here this morning. Please welcome him.” The class murmured their usual fake welcomes. Kamal’s eyes scanned the room briefly… but the second his gaze met Aisha’s, something shifted. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t attraction. It was recognition. Like two broken souls whispering, “Oh… you too?” He looked away quickly, but Aisha had already seen it — the heavy sadness behind his eyes, the same kind she carried like a birthmark. The teacher pointed at the only empty seat — right beside Aisha. Great. Now she had a desk partner. She stared out the window, pretending she didn’t care. But she heard him sit. He moved quietly, gently, almost fearfully. He opened his sketchbook. And that was when she heard it — his breath catching. Soft but cracked. Like someone trying not to fall apart. Aisha turned slightly, just enough to peek. And what she saw in that sketchbook almost made her drop her pen. A drawing of a girl… Underwater… Her hand reaching toward the surface… Her eyes open, but empty. Drowning. Completely. Aisha felt her heart clench. She had seen that expression before — in the mirror. Why would he draw something like that? Who was the girl? Why did the sketch feel like a silent scream? Before she could look away, Kamal closed the sketchbook fast. Too fast. Their eyes met for the second time. And this time, she didn’t see sadness. She saw terror. He wasn’t just hiding something. He was running from it. The bell rang for break time. Students scattered. The classroom emptied. But Aisha remained seated. So did Kamal. Silence wrapped around them — heavy, suffocating, strangely familiar. Kamal cleared his throat softly. She didn’t look at him. He muttered, “Sorry… for the drawing.” She shrugged, keeping her voice calm. “It’s fine.” Pause. “But why was she drowning?” she asked before she could stop herself. Another pause. Then he whispered something she didn’t expect. “Because sometimes I feel like that too.” Her breath hitched. And slowly… cautiously… Broken soul recognized broken soul again. It was the first moment that didn’t feel like loneliness. It felt like the beginning of a story that would change everything.