Elara Dwijaya
The black marker in my hand danced nimbly across the whiteboard, creating a row of numbers that should have been boring, but somehow today looked like a cheerful string of musical notes. I hummed softly, a sound barely audible amidst the low din of scraping chairs and whispering first-graders.
"So, what is ten minus four, Gafa?" I asked, turning around and flashing a smile that—according to Saskia—was far too bright for a Monday.
"Six, Miss!" Gafa said, beaming with pride.
I glanced at the middle row. Lyra was giggling, nudging her friend's arm. She looked so healthy, so happy. And every time those grey eyes met mine, a sweet secret passed between us without a single word. A secret about dinners for three, spilled chocolate ice cream, and her father—who had now become my
