The Day We Started Over

CHAPTER 10 - THE STORM BREAKS 3

The sun had almost disappeared, leaving streaks of red and gold in the sky, but under the mango tree, shadows stretched long, curling like fingers reaching for them. Kamal sat with his head bowed, sketchbook clutched to his chest, and Aisha beside him, silent, unwavering.

Suddenly, a noise from the path leading to their secret spot made both of them tense. Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, echoed against the walls of the empty alleyways.

Aisha’s stomach clenched. “Kamal… someone’s coming,” she whispered.

He froze. His hands gripped the sketchbook tighter. “No… not now… please,” he muttered. His voice was shaky, almost pleading.

The footsteps grew louder. And then, from behind the trees lining the edge of the lot, the ringleader from school appeared, flanked by two other boys. Smirks stretched across their faces, but their eyes held something sharper this time — predatory, deliberate.

“You thought you could hide, huh?” the ringleader sneered. “New guy, alone with the quiet girl. Looks like we found our entertainment for the evening.”

Kamal’s hands shook. He pressed the sketchbook to his chest like a shield, eyes darting between the boys and Aisha. Panic rose in waves. His breaths came fast, shallow, ragged — the kind of fear that doesn’t just scare you but physically weighs you down.

Aisha stood slowly, heart pounding. “Stay back,” she said, voice low but steady. “Don’t even think about touching him.”

The boys laughed, but it was a sharp, cold laugh this time. They advanced closer, confident in numbers and cruelty.

“You’re brave, little girl,” the ringleader said, stepping closer. “But bravery doesn’t save your friend here.”

Kamal flinched violently at the word “friend,” the fear in his chest threatening to overwhelm him. He opened his sketchbook quickly, flipping to the page with the faceless figure looming over the boy in the corner — himself. Lines were jagged, chaotic, shadows deep.

“I… I can’t… I can’t—” he stammered, voice barely audible, terror etched on his face.

Aisha moved in front of him, hands out, positioning herself between him and the bullies. “You will not touch him,” she repeated.

The ringleader’s smirk faltered. “Or what?” he jeered.

Aisha’s eyes burned. “Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The tension was electric. Kamal’s panic surged, but now there was a flicker of something else — trust. He looked at her, then at the sketchbook, then back at her, drawing strength from her presence.

Suddenly, one of the boys lunged toward Kamal. Reflexively, Aisha grabbed a stick from the ground and swung it, narrowly missing the attacker but enough to make him stumble.

Kamal froze for a moment, shock rippling through him. Then, slowly, he realized something crucial — he wasn’t alone.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, flipping his sketchbook open. His pencil trembled in his hand, then moved rapidly, fiercely, drawing shadows over the approaching bullies, sketching jagged edges, dark lines, almost as if his drawings could become a weapon.

Aisha’s jaw tightened. “Keep drawing,” she urged, standing firm.

The boys hesitated. The surreal sight of a boy wielding his sketchbook like a shield, lines and shadows taking form on paper, was unsettling. They weren’t used to someone fighting back in such an unexpected way.

Kamal’s hand moved faster, more determined. Each stroke seemed to push the fear away, replacing it with controlled anger. For the first time, he wasn’t just a victim. He was resisting. He was standing, in his own way, fighting the storm.

The ringleader snarled, realizing they couldn’t intimidate him anymore, at least not without consequence. He motioned to his friends, and they retreated, grumbling, angered but wary of Kamal’s sudden defiance.

When the last footsteps faded into the distance, Kamal slumped, exhausted, clutching the sketchbook. Tears streamed down his face, but this time they were mixed — part fear, part relief, part something new: empowerment.

Aisha knelt beside him, brushing hair from his damp forehead. “You did it,” she whispered. “You stood up. You’re stronger than you know.”

He shook his head, voice breaking. “I… I couldn’t have done it without you. I… I thought I’d always be scared. Always alone. But…” He looked at her, vulnerability raw in his eyes. “Not tonight. Not with you.”

The storm of the day had passed, leaving behind an eerie calm. Kamal’s drawings lay scattered, jagged lines and shadows now softened, like the echoes of fear transforming into symbols of courage.

They stayed under the mango tree long after, letting the adrenaline fade, letting the silence heal. Kamal leaned against her, shaky but safe, and Aisha let him, heart swelling with protective love and quiet pride.

For the first time, they both understood something: storms could come from outside, storms could come from within, but storms could also be faced — together.

And that night, as they parted ways, Kamal whispered softly, “Thank you… for not leaving.”

Aisha smiled gently, her own chest tight with emotion. “Never. I’ll never leave.”

The world outside their secret mango tree was still cruel and unpredictable. But for Kamal and Aisha, the darkest storm yet had passed — and a fragile, precious bond had been forged in the chaos.

The mango tree offered a fragile shelter, but the shadows of Kamal’s past lingered like persistent ghosts. He sat beneath it, sketchbook clutched tightly, shoulders trembling. Aisha’s hand rested lightly on his, grounding him in the present, but the storm in his mind refused to calm.

“Tell me,” she whispered, voice soft but steady. “Tell me what happened at home.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes stared at the grass, seeing not the green blades beneath them but a darkened room, walls cracked and peeling, a single dim light swinging from the ceiling. He could hear it — the shouting, the smashing of furniture, the sharp, cutting words that lodged themselves in his chest like knives.

“I…” he began, voice trembling. “It started small. I was… I was just a kid. Little things, mistakes… or maybe just breathing wrong. He’d… get angry. Really angry. And when he was… angry, nothing was safe. Not the walls, not the furniture, not me.”

Aisha swallowed, holding back tears. She squeezed his hand gently. “You don’t have to relive it all at once,” she said.

Kamal shook his head, as if forced to release the memories. “I have to. I can’t… it’s like if I don’t, it swallows me whole. He… he would hit me. Not sometimes, always. And the bruises… they weren’t just on my arms. They were in my chest, my mind, my heartbeat. And the yelling… it never stopped. Even when he left the room, I could hear it in my head.”

Aisha’s chest ached. Her mind wanted to scream at the world, to rip the pain from him and destroy it. But she knew screaming wouldn’t help. All she could do was be there, witness, and stay.

“Did… did anyone help you?” she asked softly.

Kamal laughed, a short, bitter sound. “No. No one. My mom… she left when I was little. Said she couldn’t handle it. And everyone else… everyone saw him as just… strict, angry, normal. But he wasn’t. Not normal. Not in any way that should exist. And I… I learned to hide. To hide everything. My fear, my pain, my drawings, my thoughts… I became invisible so it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

Tears glistened in Aisha’s eyes, but she blinked rapidly to stop them from falling. “You’re not invisible to me,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

He lifted his eyes to hers, haunted and raw. “I… I don’t know how to be seen without being hurt. I’ve been invisible so long, I forgot what it meant to exist outside fear.”

She leaned closer. “You can be seen now. And you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

He swallowed, voice quivering. “I want to believe that… I really do. But sometimes, it feels like the storm will never end. That it’s inside me now. That I’ll never escape it.”

“You will,” she said firmly. “Not alone, not ever. And we’ll face it together. Every storm, every shadow — together.”

He drew in a shaky breath, and for a long moment, neither spoke. The wind rustled the leaves above, a quiet, protective whisper around them.

Then, slowly, he began to draw again. This time, his sketches weren’t just chaotic shadows and jagged lines. They were scenes from home — the dark room, the looming figure, the fear — but he drew them as if confronting them, capturing every detail without flinching. Each stroke was raw, unfiltered, painful — and yet, a small courage started to seep through the lines.

Aisha watched silently, marveling at the strength it took to do this. “It’s okay,” she whispered again. “You’re doing amazing. Every line… every shadow… it doesn’t own you. You own it.”

Kamal paused, looking at her. “I… I don’t know if I can handle it,” he admitted. “Sometimes it’s too much. Too real. And I feel… broken.”

“You’re not broken,” Aisha said firmly, her voice ringing with conviction. “You’re surviving. You’re here. And you’re brave, braver than anyone I know.”

He let the pencil hover, staring at the page as if weighing her words. Slowly, he began to draw the faceless figure differently — smaller, more distant, shadowed but not overwhelming. The lines softened, the shapes became less jagged. He was changing the narrative on paper, mirroring the possibility of changing it inside himself.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. Aisha noticed the tension slowly leaving his body. His breaths, though still shaky, became steadier. His eyes, haunted but alive, met hers.

“I… I think… maybe I can survive this,” he said quietly. “Maybe I don’t have to be afraid all the time. Maybe I can… be seen and not hurt.”

Aisha smiled softly, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “Yes. And you don’t have to do it alone. Ever.”

They sat in silence, letting the quiet wrap around them, the weight of the day gradually fading. The storm of the past still lingered, but for the first time, it seemed manageable — not gone, but no longer unconquerable.

As darkness settled, Aisha’s hand remained on his, anchoring him, reminding him that safety wasn’t just a dream. It could exist — here, now, in the space they shared.

And for Kamal, the flicker of hope strengthened, fragile but undeniable. The storm of his past hadn’t passed completely, but for the first time, he felt a tentative belief that it could one day be weathered.