FAR FROM HOME

AMARA

FAR FROM HOME

By Mr Black

PART I — THE GIRL WITHOUT A NAME

CHAPTER FOUR

The First Lie

The first lie I ever told Amara was so small that I almost forgot it.

Almost.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon, three weeks after she promised to make my life miserable by becoming my friend.

We were sitting in an empty classroom while rain hammered against the windows. Most students had gone home. A few remained outside, shouting over a football game that should have ended twenty minutes earlier.

Amara was supposed to be studying.

Instead, she was watching me.

"You've been quiet today."

"I'm always quiet."

"Not like this."

I turned a page in my notebook.

She leaned forward.

"Did something happen at home?"

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

Amara noticed.

She always noticed.

"You're lying."

"Then why ask?"

She stared at me for a moment, apparently deciding whether I was worth the effort.

Then she closed her textbook.

"Fine. Don't tell me."

I continued writing.

She packed her things.

For some reason, the sound of her books sliding into her bag irritated me more than her questions had.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"I thought you wanted to study."

"I did. But apparently, I'm disturbing you."

She stood.

I looked at the empty classroom, then at the rain outside.

"You can stay."

She paused.

"Why?"

I had no answer that wouldn't embarrass me.

Because I didn't want to sit alone?

Because I had become accustomed to her talking?

Because, for the first time in my life, somebody's presence had started to feel less exhausting than their absence?

I shrugged.

"Do whatever you want."

She smiled faintly.

"That's what I thought."

She sat back down.

And just like that, the moment passed.

I should have understood then that Amara had a dangerous habit.

She made people feel comfortable enough to tell the truth.

Unfortunately, I had spent years learning how not to.

---

My home life became worse that month.

It wasn't one dramatic incident. It was a collection of ordinary arguments that gradually made the house feel smaller.

My mother inspected my clothes.

My father questioned my attitude.

My relatives compared me to girls who smiled more, spoke more gently, and appeared to enjoy being daughters.

At dinner, my mother announced that a woman from church had asked about me.

"She has a daughter your age," she said. "Very respectful. Very well behaved."

I continued eating.

"She helps her mother in the kitchen. She dresses properly. She doesn't argue with every instruction."

My younger sibling looked at me, then quickly returned to their food.

My mother sighed.

"I don't know why you insist on making everything difficult."

I put down my spoon.

"Then stop making everything about me."

Silence.

My father slowly raised his head.

"What did you say?"

I looked at him.

"I said—"

"I heard you."

His voice was quiet, which was worse than shouting.

He asked me to follow him into the sitting room.

My mother remained at the table.

I could feel her disappointment following me down the corridor.

My father stood beside the window.

"You think you're independent because you refuse to listen?"

"No."

"Then what do you think you are?"

I considered the question.

"Tired."

He stared at me.

"Tired of what?"

I wanted to say everything.

Instead, I said, "Nothing."

He shook his head.

"You cannot live in this house and behave as if you have no family."

I looked at the window.

Outside, the evening was darkening. Somewhere nearby, a generator rattled.

"I know."

"Do you?"

I didn't answer.

He spoke for another ten minutes about respect, gratitude, responsibility, and the sacrifices parents made for their children.

I had heard the speech before.

The details changed. The conclusion never did.

I was expected to become someone else, and my refusal was proof that something was wrong with me.

When he finally dismissed me, I returned to my bedroom and sat on the floor beside my bed.

My phone vibrated.

AMARA: Are you alive?

I typed, Unfortunately.

She replied with a laughing emoji.

Then:

What happened?

I stared at the screen.

I could tell her.

I could describe the argument, repeat my father's words, and admit that sometimes I imagined leaving home and never looking back.

Instead, I typed:

Nothing. Just tired.

Her reply came a minute later.

You always say that.

I locked my phone.

The lie had been small.

But it was the first time I understood that I could be lonely even when somebody was trying to reach me.

---

The next morning, Amara arrived at school with a swollen left eye.

She claimed she had walked into a door.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Neither of us believed the other.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Nothing."

I almost smiled.

She noticed.

"Oh, so now you understand how annoying that question is?"

"Who did it?"

She turned away.

"Nobody."

"Amara."

She froze.

It was the first time I had said her name like that—without irritation, without a joke, without trying to make the conversation disappear.

She looked back at me.

For a moment, I thought she might tell me.

Then she smiled.

"You're becoming a very nosy friend."

I hated that smile.

Not because it was fake.

Because I could tell it was.

At lunch, I found her sitting alone behind the library.

The same place where she had once asked whether I hated being touched.

I sat beside her, leaving the familiar space between us.

She kept her eyes on the ground.

"Did you fight with someone?" I asked.

"No."

"Did somebody hit you?"

She didn't answer.

I felt something tighten in my chest.

Anger, perhaps.

Or fear.

I wasn't familiar enough with either feeling to distinguish them.

"Tell me who."

She looked at me sharply.

"Why?"

"Because I asked."

"That's not a reason."

I fell silent.

She rubbed the corner of her eye.

"You know what your problem is?"

"I have several. Be specific."

She almost laughed.

Then her expression changed.

"You think caring about someone means you have to solve everything for them."

I frowned.

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to."

She turned towards me.

"Sometimes people don't want you to fix anything. Sometimes they just want you to sit there and not make them explain every single thing they're feeling."

I stared at her.

It sounded simple.

It also sounded impossible.

I had spent so long treating emotions like problems to be eliminated that I didn't know what to do with feelings that couldn't be solved.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I sat there.

I didn't ask another question.

I didn't touch her.

I didn't tell her everything would be fine.

After a while, she leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

We remained behind the library until the bell rang.

When we finally stood, she caught my sleeve.

Not my hand.

My sleeve.

Just enough to stop me from walking away.

I looked down at her fingers.

She released me immediately.

"Sorry."

I adjusted my sleeve.

"It's fine."

She studied my face.

"Is it?"

I nodded.

She didn't look convinced.

Neither was I.

---

Two days later, somebody sent me a photograph.

It arrived during class from an unknown number.

The image showed Amara standing outside a building I didn't recognise. A man stood beside her, his face partly hidden by the angle of the camera.

Amara wasn't smiling.

She was holding a brown envelope.

The message beneath the photograph contained four words.

SHE HASN'T TOLD YOU.

I stared at it until the teacher called my name.

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"What did I just say?"

I looked at the board.

I had no idea.

The class laughed.

I ignored them and slipped the phone into my pocket.

At lunch, I showed Amara the photograph.

Her face changed so quickly that I almost missed it.

Almost.

"Where did you get this?"

"Someone sent it."

"When?"

"This morning."

She looked at the screen again.

Then she handed the phone back.

"Delete it."

"Who is that man?"

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

Her eyes lifted to mine.

For the first time since we had met, Amara looked at me as if she didn't recognise me.

"You're right," she said quietly. "I am."

The admission caught me off guard.

I had expected another denial.

Another joke.

Another attempt to change the subject.

Instead, she stood and picked up her bag.

"Amara, wait."

She didn't.

I followed her into the corridor.

"Tell me what's going on."

She turned so abruptly that I stopped.

"Why?"

"Because somebody is sending me photographs of you!"

"And?"

I stared at her.

"And you don't think that's strange?"

"Of course I think it's strange!"

Her voice cracked against the corridor walls.

Several students turned to look.

She lowered her voice.

"You think you're the only person who has secrets? You think I can tell you everything just because you sit beside me at lunch?"

I felt my face grow hot.

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you expect."

She walked away.

This time, I didn't follow.

I stood in the corridor while students passed around me, pretending not to notice the argument.

For the rest of the day, Amara didn't speak to me.

Neither did I speak to her.

I told myself I was angry.

I told myself she had no right to keep things from me after asking me to trust her.

I told myself I didn't care whether she spoke to me again.

That evening, I opened the photograph.

I enlarged the man's face.

The image was grainy, but something about him seemed familiar.

I couldn't explain why.

I saved the photograph to my notebook folder and turned off my phone.

Then I sat at my desk and wrote a sentence.

Everyone has something to hide.

I paused.

Underneath it, I added:

The dangerous ones are the people who make you believe they have nothing to hide from you.

I closed the notebook.

I didn't know that the photograph would matter again.

I didn't know that the man standing beside Amara would eventually become connected to the worst night of my life.

And I certainly didn't know that the person who sent the photograph wasn't trying to warn me about Amara.

They were warning Amara about me.

---

The next morning, I found an envelope inside my schoolbag.

There was no name on it.

No address.

No explanation for how it had gotten there.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Five words had been written across the middle.

ASK HER WHAT HAPPENED.

Beneath them was a date.

Three years earlier than the date on the missing-person poster I would eventually see.

I read the date again.

Then I turned the paper over.

On the back, someone had written my name.

Not the name my family used.

Not the name printed on my school documents.

A name I hadn't heard since childhood.

A name I had never told Amara.

I sat down slowly.

Around me, the classroom filled with noise. Chairs scraped against the floor. Students exchanged homework. Someone complained about an upcoming test.

Ordinary life continued.

I looked at the paper.

For the first time, I wondered whether Amara had entered my life by accident.

And for the first time, I considered the possibility that she hadn't.

---

TO BE CONTINUED ......