Chapter Twelve : The Dream She Couldn't Say
503 Words
Juliet didn’t speak to Solene that morning.
She avoided his gaze in the hallway. She switched seats in class. During lunch, she disappeared before he could find her. And when he did, she claimed she had a headache and needed quiet.
But Solene wasn’t someone who gave up easily.
He watched her closely that day—not with pity, but with concern so deep it felt like still water. He noticed her eyes—dull, distant, unlike the girl who used to sketch birds in the margins of her notebooks or quietly laugh at his poetry.
He didn’t press her. Not at first.
But after the final bell rang, he caught up with her behind the school’s courtyard, where the jacaranda tree had started shedding its pale purple flowers again.
“I brought snacks,” he said, holding up a small brown paper bag.
She didn’t respond, just stared ahead.
“You don’t have to talk,” he added. “I just didn’t want you to be alone.”
Juliet’s shoulders sagged. She sat down slowly at the base of the tree. Solene joined her in silence.
They sat that way for a long time—no words, just wind and petals.
Finally, Juliet spoke. Her voice was small, but steady. “Have you ever wanted to disappear?”
Solene looked at her. “Sometimes. Yeah.”
She glanced at him, just once, then looked away again.
“I used to dream about this little house,” she said softly. “Wooden. On a hill. No noise. Just birds and sky. No politics. No cameras. No expectations. Just… peace.”
Solene listened carefully, letting her words drift between them.
“I wanted to live there,” she continued. “Far from all this. Far from rich people who smile too much and listen too little. Just me and quiet. Maybe some paints. A small garden. Nothing big.”
He smiled gently. “That sounds perfect.”
“It does,” she whispered. “But I don’t think I’ll ever get there.”
“Why not?”
Juliet didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
The words were too heavy—the truth about her uncle, her pain, the way her mother dismissed it like it was dust on her dress. She wanted to say it. To tell someone. But the fear held her down like a weight she couldn’t lift.
So instead, she said, “Because I don’t think I’ll ever be strong enough.”
Solene turned to her then, his voice quiet but sure. “You’re stronger than you know, Juliet. You survived another day. And you’re still here.”
She finally looked at him—and for the first time that day, she smiled. It was faint. Broken. But it was real.
He reached over, handed her a piece of chocolate from the bag. “For the girl who wants a house on a hill.”
She took it with shaking fingers, and held onto it like a promise she might believe in someday.
- Writer
