The Girl who borrowed from Tomorrow

Sapphire was the only daughter and child of the Waldo family, who lived in the quiet town of Gatesworth. However, after years of misunderstandings, her father remarried and divorced her mother. Sapphire grew up with her mother, a government nurse, learning early what it meant to live with quiet strength and resilience. Sapphire hated mornings. Not because they were loud or busy, but because they came too quickly—dragging her into a day she never felt ready for. “Amara! You’ll be late again!” her mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “I’m coming!” she replied, though she hadn’t moved. Her books lay open on the bed, untouched since the night before. Numbers, formulas, words—they all blurred together these days. No matter how long she stared, they refused to stay in her head. Sapphire reluctantly sprang out of bed and prepared for school. Her heart pounded at the thought of going back to class. Just then, her gaze drifted across the walls of her room, filled with beautiful childhood memories. She took a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh, almost on the verge of tears. Softly, she whispered, “Time… could you ever do me any favor?” Reality snapped back as the horn of her mother’s car sounded outside, signaling it was time to leave. Quickly, she packed her school bag, grabbed her breakfast, and stepped into the car for school. Sapphire had always believed that time was her enemy. It moved too fast during exams, too slow when she needed answers, and never seemed to work in her favor. To her, life was racing ahead without meaning—no accomplishments, no direction, no value she could hold onto. She trembled violently that morning, knowing their results were to be published at school. It was always a time of mockery and humiliation for poorly performing students like her. “Oh God, please help me,” she muttered under her breath. “Sapphire… Sapphire… Sapphire!” Her mother’s voice pulled her back to reality. Startled, she quickly composed herself, grabbed her things, and headed out for school. “Always late,” her sad-faced teacher blurted as Sapphire entered the classroom. “Sorry, ma,” she apologized quickly and headed to her seat. She exchanged a quiet high-five with her best friend, Anita. They had been friends since childhood and had faced many trials together. People often called them “conjoined twins” because they were almost always seen together. But Sapphire’s critics would joke cruelly that, in the process of “separating,” Anita had taken everything—leaving Sapphire not just empty, but null and void. Whenever those words were said, they sparked laughter from others, leaving Sapphire feeling hollow. Anita, however, never took the joke lightly. She always stood by her friend, even when she said nothing. Sapphire would often cry alone, accepting comfort from no one except Anita. Anita, on the other hand, was a confident and brilliant student. Her eldest sister was an award-winning scientist and currently a doctor, while her brother was a young lecturer at a prestigious university in England. Her family constantly encouraged and supported her academically, always pushing her toward excellence. She was a high achiever—disciplined, focused, and driven. Her parents, older in age, provided her with care, practical advice, time, and a listening ear—unlike Sapphire’s mother, who was always busy and rarely had the luxury of attention to spare. “Sapphire! Sapphire!! Sapphire!!! Where have you been?” her teacher’s voice snapped sharply, pulling her back to reality. Unaware, Anita had been tapping her, trying to get her attention, but Sapphire hadn’t felt it—lost deeply in thought. “Where was your mind?” her teacher interrogated further. Felicity was not just Sapphire’s rival—she was the kind of enemy who smiled while calculating her next move. Beautiful, sharp-tongued, and socially powerful, Felicity understood people in a way most students didn’t. She knew what to say, who to befriend, and when to strike without ever looking guilty. To teachers, she was polite and intelligent. To classmates, she was confident and admirable. But behind that polished image was a girl who never forgot a slight—or a loss. Her hatred for Sapphire didn’t begin loudly; it grew quietly, like a secret she fed over time. It started with Max. Felicity’s boyfriend had fallen for Sapphire, drawn to her natural beauty and calm presence. The betrayal shattered Felicity’s pride more than her heart. Even after Max left the school, Felicity didn’t move on—she adapted. She learned how to hide her anger behind charm and control. Then came the prom night. Sapphire’s unexpected crowning as prom queen was the final humiliation. While others celebrated, Felicity studied the room—the applause, the admiration, the attention Sapphire received. And in that moment, something in her shifted from jealousy to determination. From that day forward, Felicity stopped competing openly. She began working in silence. She built alliances, collected secrets, and carefully shaped opinions around Sapphire’s name. A rumor here, a misunderstanding there—never enough to be traced back to her, but always enough to weaken Sapphire’s standing. To the world, Felicity was just another brilliant student. But to Sapphire, she became something far more dangerous: a shadow that followed her everywhere, always smiling, always watching, always waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The room lingered in quiet amusement after Felicity’s comment. A few students still smirked, exchanging glances as the tension settled into something uncomfortable for Sapphire. The teacher’s expression hardened. “That’s enough,” she said firmly. Then she turned back to Sapphire. “Where was your mind, Sapphire?” For a moment, Sapphire said nothing. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her desk. She could feel every eye in the room—watching, waiting, measuring her silence like it was proof of weakness. Felicity sat back, calm and composed, as if she had already won without lifting another finger. Sapphire swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was quiet at first. “I… was thinking,” she began. A few students leaned in slightly, expecting another excuse. Sapphire lifted her head. Her voice steadied. “I was thinking about how easy it is for people to speak when they don’t understand someone else’s silence.” The room shifted. The soft laughter faded. She continued, a little stronger now. “Not everyone who is quiet is lost. And not everyone who speaks loudly is right.” A pause. Her eyes briefly met Felicity’s—not in anger, but in something calmer, deeper. “So maybe I wasn’t absent,” Sapphire said softly. “Maybe I was just not where everyone expected me to be.” Silence followed. Even the teacher didn’t interrupt. Anita, seated nearby, lowered her gaze slightly—relieved, almost proud. Felicity’s expression didn’t change much, but something in her eyes sharpened. The smile was still there, but it no longer looked effortless. The teacher finally cleared her throat. “Sit down, Sapphire. Let’s continue with the lesson.” But the atmosphere in the room had already changed. And for the first time that day, Sapphire didn’t feel like she had disappeared into the background.