Chapter 8: Beneath the Surface
1290 Words
Morning sunlight filtered through the windows of the art room, imbuing the wood floors with a warm gold that appeared to gentle everything, make it slightly less dangerous. Amira was cross-legged on the stage platform, flipping through the journal she had begun keeping since the inception of the Open Canvas Club. It was a collage of raw musings, quotes from others, ink-blotted poetry, and sketches she hadn't yet mustered the bravery to show anyone.
Despite all of the growth—the club, the grant, the small ripples spreading outward from Meadowbrook High—Amira felt a restlessness building under her skin.
She missed Jayden.
Not just in the way that one misses a friend who's far away. She missed the strange comfort of his mess, the way he could break her silence with a single sarcastic remark or perceptive glance. Despite the video calls each night and the steady stream of voice notes, it wasn't the same.
It was like reading poetry in translation.
You get it. You feel it.
But something essential is lost.
Amira walked home from school rather than taking the bus. The spring wind still held a bit of a bite, and she liked the way it bit at her cheeks, reminded her that she was alive.
She took the long route, cutting through the community garden behind the library. None of the flowers were blooming yet, but the soil had been overturned, fresh and ready. Something about it made her think of herself—always on the verge of being.
Near the gate, she heard someone crying.
She hesitated, then walked on.
There, crouched beside a bench with her face buried in her arms, was Nina—the soft-spoken girl from the club who had delivered the monologue about bullying.
Amira approached slowly.
“Hey… Nina?”
The girl startled but didn’t pull away. Her shoulders trembled.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”
Amira sat beside her on the cold bench.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Nina wiped her eyes, sat up, and said, “My dad lost his job. He’s been… angry. He drinks again. My mom’s working two jobs just to keep the lights on. And I—” Her voice cracked. “I feel like I’m disappearing.”
Amira felt her own throat tighten. She reached out, resting her hand gently over Nina’s.
“You’re not disappearing,” she said. “I see you.”
Nina broke again—but this time, she didn't cry alone.
---
Amira couldn't sleep that night. Jayden's texts had stopped that day, which wasn't like him. Even when he was extremely exhausted, he sent her something—a joke, a rant, a verse from a song he liked.
But tonight: nothing.
She stared at her phone for hours before finally falling into a restless sleep.
---
The next day, Jayden still hadn't texted.
By noon, Amira's anxiety had twisted into something cutting and consuming. She tried to focus in class, but words blurred. She checked her phone every few minutes. Nothing.
Finally, at lunch, she slipped out and called him.
No answer.
She tried again. Voicemail.
A thousand scenarios somersaulted through her mind—had something happened? Had he been hurt? Or worse… had he changed his mind?
But then she remembered—he had mentioned something about an open mic in Seattle he was attending. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he got busy. Maybe…
Anyway, she couldn't focus.
---
After school, Amira skipped Open Canvas and headed straight home.
She opened her front door to the aroma of pasta. Her mother, home early from the hospital for a change, was at the stove.
"You okay, sweetie?" her mom asked without turning.
Amira placed her bag on the floor by the couch.
"Not really."
Her mother turned around, eyebrows furrowed.
Amira hesitated—then poured it all out. About Jayden's silence. Nina's breakdown. The growing stress of being that rock for everyone else.
Her mother turned off the stove, came to sit beside her, and said something Amira never expected.
"Honey, you carry so much. And I'm proud of you. But even tough girls get weary. You don't have to carry everyone always."
Amira dropped her gaze. "I don't want to break down again."
"Then lean," her mother told her. "That's what family is for. And if not us—then Jayden. Or Kara. Or your diary. Just… don't keep folding everything inside."
Amira nuzzled her mother's shoulder, the way she hadn't done since she was eleven.
That night, Jayden finally texted.
> "Sorry, M. Battery died, then I had a panic attack and ended up crashing at a hostel. Not my finest moment. Can I call?"
Amira's relief was instant.
> Yes. Call. Now.
Seconds later, the phone rang.
"Hey," Jayden said, voice gruff.
"You scared me," she whispered.
"I scared me too."
---
They talked on the phone for two hours.
Jayden told her about the open mic—about how he'd frozen up during his poem, how his hands wouldn't stop shaking. How he'd ended up in a bathroom stall for twenty minutes, just trying to breathe.
"It was like I could hear every voice I've ever tried to tune out," he said. "All screaming at the same time."
Amira didn't offer advice.
She just listened.
And when he was ready, he whispered, "Thank you for not giving up on me."
"I never could," she said.
---
The next week brought a new energy to the club.
Prompted by her conversation with Nina, Amira proposed a new theme:
"What does survival look like today?"
The responses were breathtaking.
Some wrote about waking up.
Others about holding their breath through dinner arguments.
One girl wrote about not cutting herself for twelve days in a row.
Evan sang a song he'd written for his sister, who'd passed away the year before.
And Nina—brave, trembling Nina—displayed a painting of a girl standing alone in a storm with the words:
"But she's still standing."
---
Later, after most students had left, Kara sat beside Amira in the empty gym, eating sour candy and flipping through her notes app.
"You ever wonder how long we can keep this up?" she said.
Amira rested against the wall. "Sometimes. But then someone says something that makes it worth it again."
Kara paused. "I'm glad you didn't shut up, Mira."
Amira grinned. "Me too."
Kara nudged her. "But if you ever get too famous and leave me behind, I will pull off a dramatic betrayal."
"You'll need a cape."
"And glitter bombs."
They laughed until the janitor threw them out.
---
That night, Jayden sent Amira a video.
It was he, sitting on a rooftop with his guitar, wind rumpling his curls. He played something haunting and raw, and right before the final chord, he looked into the camera and said:
> "This one's for the girl who taught me that silence isn't always strength—and sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is speak."
Amira watched it three times before replying.
> I'm adding a jar for "Bravery." It's for you.
---
The next Monday, she placed the new jar on her windowsill. It gleamed in the afternoon sun, full of dried marigold petals and a folded piece of paper with Jayden’s lyrics scribbled across it.
Bravery.
It didn’t always look like shouting.
Sometimes it looked like showing up when you’d rather run. Like listening when your heart was tired. Like staying soft in a world that rewarded cruelty.
Amira knew now: her voice wasn't the end of it.
It was just the beginning.
- Writer
