Abigail - Love, Family and Friendship

The Rose and the Thorn If there is a day that scares me most, it’s my birthday. It’s a reminder that I’m another year older, another year closer to… what? Another year of trying to make my life something meaningful, I suppose. Another year of pretending I have it all together when inside, I feel like a mess. Turning 18 should feel like a milestone, but for me, it’s a deadline. A deadline to finally get it right. To finally be something more than the pretty face everyone notices but no one really knows. The truth is, beauty is a curse when it’s the only thing people see. They look at me, and I can see the way their eyes flicker—first to my face, then to my body, then to my eyes, searching for something deeper. But they never find it. I don’t blame them. I’m beautiful, yes. But beauty doesn’t mean anything when it’s the only thing you’re allowed to be. Academics? Not my strong suit. I’d never say that aloud to anyone, but it’s true. I get by—just enough to keep me from failing—but I’m nowhere near as brilliant as Jane, my roommate. She’s got everything figured out, or so it seems. It’s like she was born with the perfect balance of intelligence and grace. Me? I’m the one who shows up late to class, scribbling down notes and hoping they make sense later. But what does it matter? My future isn’t going to be decided by my grades; it’s going to be decided by my ability to survive—emotionally, mentally, and physically. And then there’s the prom. It’s supposed to be the night I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little girl. Everyone says it’s the night you’ll remember forever, but I can’t help but wonder: what if no one remembers me? What if I’m just another girl in a sea of faces, another girl who pretended to be something she’s not? Dear diary, you’re the only one who listens, even when I don’t make sense. I don’t know why I’m so scared of growing up. Of facing the future. Maybe it’s because I know that nothing will ever truly change, not really. But I have to try, don’t I? 18 isn’t just a number. It’s a promise to myself—to do better, to be better, to not keep running away from what’s inside of me. I can’t keep hiding. Maybe this year, I’ll start picking up the pieces. Maybe this year, I’ll finally be more than just the rose and the thorn. My roommate Jane’s laughter echoed in the dorm room, light and unrestrained, as Abigail sat cross-legged on her bed, scribbling in her journal. The sunlight streaming through the window framed Jane like an angelic figure, her fingers dancing over the keys of her piano. Abigail often envied the way Jane’s brilliance shone so effortlessly, as though every movement and note came with purpose. Where Jane was a symphony, Abigail often felt like an unfinished melody, beautiful but missing something. “You’re doing that thing again,” Jane said, her fingers pausing on the ivory keys. She didn’t look up, but her voice carried a playful edge. “What thing?” Abigail asked, though she already knew. She twirled her pen between her fingers, bracing herself for the usual teasing. “That thing where you write like the world’s about to end. Your ‘dear diary’ entries. What’s this one about? Existential dread? The meaning of life?” Jane turned, her smile as dazzling as her music, teasing yet warm enough to melt any defence. Abigail smirked and rolled her eyes. “Very funny. It’s not like you don’t pour your soul into every note you play. At least my journal doesn’t wake the neighbours.” Jane laughed, tossing a pillow in Abigail’s direction. “Touché. Still, one of these days, you’ve got to let me read something. You’re hiding a poet in there, I just know it.” Abigail caught the pillow and hugged it to her chest. “Not happening. My thoughts aren’t ready for public consumption.” Jane grinned mischievously. “Oh, I’ll get them one day. Mark my words.” A sudden knock at the door interrupted their banter. Rachel, their next-door neighbour and the unofficial gossip queen of the school, poked her head in. Her red hair was tied up in a high ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Girls, have you heard?” Rachel began, her voice a stage whisper. She didn’t wait for an answer before launching into her story. “Liam Daniels got caught sneaking into the art studio after hours. Apparently, he was painting a mural for Miss Wilson. And get this—it’s her portrait!” Jane’s eyebrows shot up as she exchanged a wide-eyed look with Abigail. “Wait, Miss Wilson, the chemistry teacher? The one who lectures us on ‘professional boundaries?” “Exactly!” Rachel’s grin was triumphant, like she had personally uncovered the scandal. “He said it was for a ‘class project,’ but everyone knows he’s been crushing on her since last semester.” Abigail chuckled, closing her journal with a soft thud. “And this is why I stick to writing in my little book. Safer that way.” Rachel flopped onto Jane’s bed, narrowly missing the piano. “Oh, please. Like you two don’t have secrets worth spilling. Come on, what’s new in your lives? Jane, any love letters slipped into your piano case lately?” Jane groaned, covering her face dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Someone actually wrote me a poem last week and signed it ‘Your Future Duet Partner.’ It was both adorable and cringeworthy.” Abigail snorted. “Aww, your secret admirer is musical. Maybe it’s destiny.” Jane threw a pillow at Abigail this time, her laugh bouncing around the room. “If that’s destiny, I want a refund.” The bell rang, signalling the start of the day’s classes. Rachel jumped up, her gossip radar already scanning for more juicy titbits. “Gotta go, ladies. Can’t be late to history. Mr. Carter’s glare is enough to ruin anyone’s morning.” Jane grabbed her books, her enthusiasm infectious. “Come on, Abby, let’s not miss chemistry again. I don’t want to give Rachel more stories to tell.” As they left the room, Abigail found herself smiling despite the teasing and gossip. For all the chaos, there was something comforting about the rhythm of their little world, with Jane’s laughter and the constant swirl of stories binding them together. A Day in class The classroom hummed with quiet activity. Whispers and the occasional stifled laugh punctuated Mr. Carter’s steady lecture on revolutions—American, French, and others Abigail couldn’t name if her life depended on it. The faint squeak of a chair and the rhythmic tapping of a pencil added to the background noise, but none of it seemed to faze Mr. Carter, who kept his focus firmly on the blackboard. Abigail sat by the window, chin resting on her hand, her gaze drifting to the sparrow outside. It hopped along a branch, carefree and oblivious to the classroom’s low-grade chaos. Abigail envied it. Inside, the air felt stifling, filled with the anticipation of prom and the endless comparisons that followed her like a shadow. “Miss Abigail,” Mr. Carter’s voice cut through her thoughts. Her stomach flipped as her head snapped up. The room turned to her—a sea of curious faces, all waiting. “Perhaps you can explain why revolutions occur?” Her throat went dry. “Uh…” She scrambled for something, anything, that sounded intelligent. “They… bring change?” It came out weak, like a question rather than an answer. Laughter rippled through the room, soft but enough to make her cheeks burn. Abigail sank lower in her seat, wishing she could disappear. Mr. Carter’s expression barely shifted, but the faintest twitch of his lips suggested amusement. “A start, I suppose,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, turning back to the blackboard. “Perhaps next time you’ll give us more to work with.” As the laughter subsided, Abigail caught Jane’s eye from across the room. Her best friend gave a small shake of her head and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. Moments later, the note landed on Abigail’s desk, perfectly aimed. She unfolded it under her textbook, biting back a smile at the familiar handwriting. “Don’t worry. You’re not made for revolutions. You’re made to inspire them”. Abigail rolled her eyes but felt the knot in her chest loosen. She glanced back at Jane, who gave her a quick wink before returning to her notebook, looking entirely unbothered by the world around her. The class moved on, though Abigail remained half-distracted. Two rows over, Rachel whispered animatedly to her friend about Liam Daniels and some “big prom surprise” he was planning. Snippets of her words floated around—secret project, Miss Wilson, totally obvious. Meanwhile, Brad “accidentally” dropped his textbook, earning a mix of groans and chuckles from his classmates. “Mr. Bradshaw,” Mr. Carter said without missing a beat, “if you’re planning a revolution against my patience, you’re succeeding.” The laughter that followed was louder this time, cutting through the room’s earlier tension. Even Abigail couldn’t help but smile. Moments like these reminded her why, despite everything, she didn’t entirely hate school. Her gaze drifted to Ethan, the quiet boy who always seemed lost in his own world. He sat hunched over his notebook, scribbling furiously as though the words might escape if he didn’t trap them fast enough. His lips moved faintly, forming silent words. Abigail wondered what he was writing—notes for class? A poem? Something about her? She pushed the thought away, feeling silly for even entertaining it. The bell rang, jolting the room into motion. Desks scraped against the floor as students gathered their things in a hurry. Abigail stayed behind, taking her time as she tucked Jane’s note into her journal. She wasn’t in a rush; chemistry wasn’t going anywhere. Jane appeared beside her, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “Ready for chemistry?” she asked, her tone light. Abigail shrugged. “Not really.” Jane smirked. “Hey, revolutions might not be your thing, but that glare you gave Carter? You could lead a rebellion. I’d follow.” Abigail laughed, the earlier embarrassment fading as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said as they stepped into the hallway. The noise of lockers slamming and voices echoing filled the air. Beside her, Jane kept talking about the latest prom gossip, and for the first time that day, Abigail felt herself relax.