LIFE IS A DICE 🎲

--- LIFE IS A DICE Chapter 1 — The Throw No One Saw Coming Fourteen-year-old Fe often thought life behaved like a dice—rolling, tumbling, never telling you what number would land facing up. Some days felt like a two: bearable. Other days, like a one: heavy, grey, and quiet in the worst way. She didn’t know when she first started describing her life like that, but the image stayed with her. Fe lived with her father in a small apartment at the back of a hardware shop he owned. The air always smelled of grease and metal, and the constant clanking from the workshop below woke her before dawn. Her father, Mr. Kareem, believed emotion was “a useless luxury,” something weak people wasted time on. He never said it kindly. He never said much kindly. Her mother had left years ago, when Fe was too young to remember anything clearly—only a blur of singing and warm hands. Her father refused to talk about her. Anytime Fe asked, he snapped, “She made her choices. Stop digging into the past.” So Fe stopped asking. But silence didn’t erase the ache. Chapter 2 —A House Without Windows School was Fe’s only escape. Her classmates didn’t know much about her life. Fe wasn’t the girl who spoke often. She had learned to shrink herself so she didn’t attract attention. Still, she paid attention to everything—small sounds, small changes, small hurts. When the teacher introduced a new unit on personal writing, Fe felt something twist in her chest. The assignment? Write about a moment that shaped you. Most students groaned, but Fe’s mind drifted to memories she rarely let herself touch: the loneliness, the quiet frustration, the sense of being unseen inside her own home. At lunch, her friend Mariam nudged her. “You look like you’re in another world,” she said. “Just thinking about the assignment.” “You’ll do great. You’re smart.” Fe didn’t reply. Compliments slid off her like water off metal—nothing stuck. That evening, when she returned home, her father barely looked up from his account book. “You’re late.” “I stayed behind to review something.” “Don’t make a habit of it.” It wasn’t his words that stung—it was the tone. As if every sentence from him carried an invisible sigh of disappointment. Fe quietly made her way to her small room. It had one bed, one table, two cracked walls, and a window that couldn’t open anymore. She often thought the window was like her father: sealed shut and impossible to breathe through. She began her assignment with a single line: Life is a dice, and I never know what number I will wake up to. Then she stopped, her fingers trembling slightly. She wasn’t sure how much she was allowed to say—how much she could put into words before it hurt too deeply. Chapter 3 — The Day the Dice Rolled Backwards A week later, Fe submitted her essay. She expected the teacher to hand it back with a score and a comment about “emotional depth.” Instead, she was called aside after class. “Fe,” Mr. Okon said softly, “I read your essay. You used strong metaphors, but you also described a lot of… heavy feelings. I want to understand what you meant.” Fe stared at him. “It’s just writing.” “Sometimes writing is where we say things we don’t say aloud.” She didn’t know how to answer. She didn’t want trouble. She didn’t want anyone calling her father. “Fe, I’m not judging you. I just want to make sure you have people to support you.” She nodded, though she wasn’t sure support was something she had ever experienced. When she got home, she found her father in a foul mood. A customer had refused to pay, and his anger clung to the walls like smoke. “I hope you didn’t embarrass yourself at school again today,” he muttered. “I didn’t.” “I doubt it.” The words cut—sharp but familiar. She had learned long ago not to react. She went to her room and sat at the edge of her bed, feeling her throat tighten. She wasn’t crying. She rarely cried. She simply sat there, letting the weight settle around her like dust. Chapter 4 — A New Number on the Dice A few days later, Fe’s teacher asked her to join a new writing club at school. She declined at first, fearing her father’s reaction, but Mr. Okon encouraged her. “You have talent. You deserve a place to express yourself.” She finally agreed. The club became a small glow in her week. Not bright enough to banish the shadows, but enough to remind her that light existed. The other students welcomed her. They shared poems, stories, jokes—and Fe slowly learned that her voice mattered in that room. One afternoon, the group leader asked them to write a piece beginning with the line: Something changed when… Fe hesitated. She didn’t know how to describe change when her life felt stuck. But she began writing: Something changed when I realized silence wasn’t strength. It was just a room I kept locking myself inside. She stopped, startled. She hadn’t meant to write that. But it felt true. The club applauded her piece later, and for a moment—not long, not dramatic—Fe felt warm inside. She felt seen. Chapter 5 — A c***k in the Wall Her father noticed the change. Not because he cared, but because she began coming home at a different time. “What are you doing after school?” “A writing club.” He snorted. “Waste of time. Words won’t feed you.” “They help me.” “I didn’t ask if they help you. I asked why you’re wasting time.” Fe pressed her lips together. “It’s important to me.” Her father paused, surprised at her firmness. “At your age, your job is to listen, not decide what’s important.” Fe didn’t argue further. But something had shifted. She realized she was tired of living only inside rules that hurt her. That night, she sat by the broken window, staring at the sky. The stars looked scattered—random, like dice thrown across a dark table. Yet even in their randomness, they were not useless. They formed constellations. Maybe her life could form something too. Chapter 6 — Learning the Rolls Weeks went by. Fe kept writing. She wrote about disappointment, about questions she wished she could ask her mother, about the coldness in her home. She never wrote names, never blamed directly. She simply shaped feelings into metaphors. Her teacher encouraged her to enter a youth writing contest. Fe hesitated, but eventually agreed. She wrote a story about a girl living in a house without windows, learning how to make her own light. It wasn’t about her—not exactly—but enough truth slept inside the story for her hands to tremble as she submitted it. The day the results came, she didn’t expect anything. But during assembly, her name was called. She had won second place. The hall clapped. Mariam hugged her. Teachers smiled at her. Fe felt something swell in her heart—something she had rarely felt: pride. When she got home, she placed the certificate on the table. Her father barely glanced at it. “What is this?” “I won a writing award.” “A school award? Meaningless.” “It’s not meaningless to me.” Her father’s eyes hardened. “Stop behaving like achievements change anything. Life is hard. You need to toughen up.” Fe inhaled slowly. “Maybe being tough doesn’t mean being cold.” It slipped out before she could stop it. Her father stared, stunned, as if someone else had spoken. She walked away before he could reply. For the first time, she didn’t feel powerless. Chapter 7 — The Final Throw Months later, Fe stood on the school’s small stage reading a piece she wrote for the term’s showcase. Her teacher had chosen her to close the event. Her story ended with the words: Life is a dice. You don’t control the throw, but you decide what to build with the number you get. Even low numbers still count. Even low numbers can move you forward. The hall erupted in applause. Her father wasn’t there—she hadn’t expected him to come. But she didn’t feel the old ache. She felt her own voice, steady and strong. Later that evening, she returned home. Her father sat at the table, unusually quiet. “I heard you read at school today,” he said without looking up. “How?” “One of the shop customers attended the event. She said you spoke well.” Fe waited. Finally, he said, “Your mother… she used to write too.” Fe froze. He continued, slowly, awkwardly. “I didn’t know how to handle things after she left. I didn’t know how to raise you. So I… shut down.” It wasn’t an apology. Not fully. But it was a c***k in the wall—small, but real. Fe nodded gently. “I’m still here.” Her father looked at her then. Really looked. “I see that.” It wasn’t a perfect ending. It wasn’t a miracle. But it was a beginning. And beginnings were numbers too. Chapter 8 — The Dice Lands Again As weeks turned to months, Fe learned something important: having difficult feelings didn’t mean she was weak. It meant she was human. She kept writing, kept speaking up in small ways, kept finding people who listened. Her father didn’t become soft overnight. But he started asking a few questions. Started listening—clumsily. Sometimes harshly. Sometimes silently. But he didn’t shut down as much. He didn’t shut her out completely. Their home didn’t suddenly fill with sunlight, but it no longer felt like a windowless room. Fe realized that life was still unpredictable. The dice still rolled without warning. But she was no longer afraid of the number she got each morning. Because she had learned how to build something with it. And that—more than anything—made her feel whole. .