The Day We Started Over

CHAPTER 8 – THE STORM BREAKS 1

The day began like any other, except the air felt heavier, charged with an unspoken tension. Aisha woke before dawn, the early light filtering weakly through her thin curtains, painting the room in shades of grey. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city outside. Her father’s room was quiet — for now — but she knew that quiet could shatter at any moment.

Her thoughts immediately went to Kamal. Yesterday’s events haunted her: the boys’ mocking laughter, the sketches spilled on the floor, the way fear had radiated from him so visibly. It had been one thing to witness it in silence; it was another to watch him shrink under it and feel utterly powerless to shield him.

She pulled on her school uniform slowly, each movement measured, cautious. Breakfast was a silent affair — a bite of bread, a sip of tea — all while keeping her eyes on the floor, avoiding the glances of her father, who muttered to himself in the living room, occasionally swearing under his breath.

By the time she left, the sky had turned a steel-grey, promising rain. She gripped her bag strap tightly and walked briskly toward school. Her thoughts looped endlessly around Kamal. She worried about him — not just because of the bullying, but because of the weight he carried in his sketchbook, the unspoken fears that seemed to shadow every step he took.

The walk to school felt longer than usual. The streets glistened with rainwater from last night, and every splash from a passing motorcycle made Aisha flinch. She had left her umbrella at home; she didn’t care about getting wet. Nothing mattered as much as getting to school, finding Kamal, and making sure he was okay.

When she arrived, the school yard was buzzing, but the tension from yesterday still lingered like a heavy fog. Some students glanced at her and Kamal, whispering, giggling, pointing — the rumor mill already in motion. Her heart thumped as she scanned the crowd. Kamal wasn’t in sight yet.

Minutes later, she spotted him near the back of the yard, seated under the shade of the old tree by the fence. He clutched his sketchbook tightly, hunched over it, shielding the pages from curious eyes. The boys from yesterday lingered nearby, smirking, clearly waiting for an opportunity to provoke him.

Aisha’s chest tightened. She wanted to run over, grab his hand, tell him he didn’t have to face them alone — but she also knew that confronting them could escalate things. So she stayed put, heart hammering, watching every move.

One of the boys, the ringleader, stepped closer to Kamal, nudging him deliberately. “Hey, freak. Thought you could hide from us yesterday, huh?”

Kamal flinched but didn’t speak. His pencil hovered over the sketchbook, trembling.

“Your little drawings don’t impress anyone,” the boy sneered. “Maybe your girlfriend likes them… or are you protecting the quiet girl too?”

Aisha felt heat surge through her. The first instinct was to storm over and scream, to demand they leave him alone. But Kamal’s hand shot up, holding the sketchbook tighter. His jaw clenched; his breathing became shallow.

Her stomach twisted. She recognized the signs — the panic, the tension, the fear that made him small, like a child bracing for impact. She knew she couldn’t just watch.

“Stop it!” she yelled, rushing toward them.

The boys laughed at her. “Oh, the quiet girl talks again,” the ringleader mocked.

Kamal flinched visibly at her voice but didn’t move. The bullying, the laughter, the cruel attention — it was all too much for him. He dropped the pencil and buried his face in his arms, rocking slightly as if the world were closing in.

Aisha froze. The sight of him like this, shaking under the weight of humiliation and fear, made her heart break. She wanted to take him away from everything — from the boys, from the judgment, from the world that had been cruel to both of them in so many ways.

She stepped closer, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. “Kamal… look at me,” she whispered.

He didn’t move. His body trembled, eyes hidden. She knelt down beside him, voice soft but steady. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m here. I won’t let them hurt you.”

The boys paused, clearly unsure how to react to her intervention. Some murmured under their breath. The ringleader’s smirk faltered for just a second.

Kamal’s hands gripped her wrist for a brief instant — a silent plea for stability, for protection — then let go. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his head. His eyes were wide, dark, filled with fear, but also with something else: trust.

For a moment, the world fell away. It was just Aisha and Kamal, sitting there under the harsh morning light, while the bullies’ laughter faded into the background.

“I… I can’t…” he whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t… face them.”

“You don’t have to,” Aisha said, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “We’ll figure this out together.”

His lips pressed together tightly. He nodded slowly. The tension didn’t leave his body entirely, but the smallest hint of relief flickered in his eyes.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because you’re not alone anymore.”

The bell rang, signaling the start of class. Aisha helped Kamal gather his things and led him to the classroom quietly. The bullies lingered behind, smirking, but they didn’t approach — at least not today.

Inside the classroom, Kamal sank into his usual seat beside her, head bowed over his sketchbook. His hands still shook slightly, but he began to draw again, the pencil moving more deliberately, less frantically.

Aisha glanced at him. She didn’t need to ask if he was okay — she could see it in the way his shoulders were less tight, in the way he breathed a fraction more easily.

The day dragged on with the usual rhythm of classes, lessons, and forced small talk. But beneath the mundane, a storm brewed. A storm of tension, of secrets, of fear that Kamal had been carrying for far too long.

When the final bell rang, they didn’t rush to leave. Instead, they slipped quietly out, heading toward the mango tree. Their secret spot had never felt more necessary than it did now.

Under the tree, Kamal opened his sketchbook. The page he had been working on revealed something different this time: a series of abstract shapes, jagged lines, and shadows, almost as if the world itself was pressing down on him.

Aisha sat beside him in silence. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough — a tether to the real world, a soft anchor amidst the chaos.

Kamal’s hand hovered over the pencil. He looked at her, vulnerability raw in his eyes. “I… I can’t stop thinking about them,” he admitted quietly. “About what they might do… about what I can’t handle.”

She reached for his hand, gripping it gently. “Then we handle it together. One step at a time. You’re not alone in this, Kamal. I won’t let you be.”

For the first time, he let himself breathe without panic. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders released just enough for a small, shaky exhale.

The storm hadn’t passed. Not yet. The bullies would return. The weight of his past would not disappear overnight.

But for the first time in a long time, Kamal felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years: safety.

And Aisha, sitting beside him, felt a quiet hope ignite in her chest — the kind that told her they could survive the storms together, no matter how dark the skies became.