Three

The morning I stepped into that new science classroom, my heart felt like a drum beating against a cage. Everything was unfamiliar — the faces, the voices, even the smell of the air. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to be here.When I sat for the national exams at the end of Ordinary Level, I was sure of what I wanted — art. Not just painting or design, but expression. Silence spoken in color, in charcoal, in brushstrokes and margins and movement. I imagined myself in quiet corners, drawing stories no one else knew how to tell. I wanted to disappear into canvases and come out whole.But sometimes, dreams aren't just fragile — they're political. And mine shattered under the weight of expectations that weren't mine. I didn't choose sciences because I loved biology or chemistry. I chose them because I was scared. Scared of being told I was wasting my future. Scared of watching disappointment pool in my parents' eyes. Scared that my love for art would be seen as laziness, weakness, rebellion.So I said goodbye to that silent version of myself, packed away my dreams like broken brushes, and signed up for PCB — Physics, Chemistry, Biology — the path everyone said was respectable. Smart. Safe.That's where I found Loren again. And the other girls from my old school. I thought I'd be new. I thought maybe I could become someone else. But instead, I became everything they remembered — the same Coco. The tomboy. The loud laugh. The girl who never quite fit their lace-and-pink-image of femininity.And just like that, all the quietness I had tried to keep in my heart evaporated. The pressure to conform, to smile when I wanted to scream, to be humble when I wanted to be bold — it drained me. PCB wasn't just hard on paper. It was hard on my soul.Two weeks in, I couldn't do it anymore.So I switched to PCM. I didn't know anyone there except Eric, my besto — the one constant in a whirl of change. And even he wasn't enough to steady the storm I felt inside. But for once, I made a decision not out of fear, but out of courage. I chose a path that made no promises, with people who didn't know my past.It was a lonely kind of freedom — starting over. But it was honest.Sometimes, healing doesn't start with finding a new dream. It begins by admitting you lost the old one.So I walked into that new classroom, scared but standing. No familiar faces, no safety nets. Just me, raw and starting again.

The night before everything changed, I stood under the dim hallway light holding onto courage like it was a fragile piece of glass. My name had just been moved onto a new list. Not the one I had imagined. Not the one where I became the quiet artist I once dreamed of becoming. No. This list belonged to the physicists, the chemists, the mathematicians—the ones who carved paths through formulas and theorems, not colors and stories.I had spent two weeks in PCB—just enough time to realize I didn't belong. Not really. Loren was there, and other girls from my old school. Familiar faces, familiar judgments. I thought starting A-Level would mean becoming someone new. Someone finally unrecognizable. But in their eyes, I was still the same. The same girl who dared to dream of something gentler. The one they whispered about. My quiet hopes didn't stand a chance.So I jumped. I switched to PCM. I barely knew a soul in that class—except for Eric, my besto. But that night, before diving into the unknown, I went to see the class monitor. I don't remember his name clearly now—just his patience. He explained the topics they had already covered, guided me like a lighthouse in fog. And I thought: maybe this is what beginning again feels like.The next morning, I walked into the PCM class. Every seat felt like a throne I hadn't earned yet. I slipped into the last desk, hoping to disappear. But when the teacher started writing on the board, all I saw was blur. My eye defect played its cruel trick, turning chalk into fog, knowledge into a wall I couldn't climb.I waited a few minutes, swallowing shame, before quietly picking up my bag and moving forward to the third desk—just behind two boys I didn't know yet. Matheo and Louis.Louis turned, eyes curious but playful. "You giving us your lunch meals, right?" he asked with a grin, as if that was the most normal thing to say to someone you'd just met.I blinked. "What?""You'll share your food with us," he repeated, pointing to his friend and then to the desk we now shared space with.It was the first thing he ever said to me. And I didn't give a damn. I was too overwhelmed, too busy trying not to drown in everything new. My heart wasn't ready to pay attention to voices, especially not ones that teased so freely. I didn't even answer him properly. I just looked away, focused on the board, on surviving.But maybe that's how some stories start—not with fireworks or confessions, but with a simple, ridiculous sentence in the middle of a tense morning.Back then, I couldn't have known how many days Louis' voice would echo in my mind, how that single silly comment would one day feel like the beginning of a thread I'd keep following even as it tangled, snapped, and tied itself into something I couldn't unfeel.The first day in PCM was strange. Everyone already had groups, inside jokes, shared trauma from tough teachers and surprise quizzes. I was the new glitch in their harmony, the unfamiliar puzzle piece. But somehow, that desk—the third one, behind Mathéo and Louis—became my landing spot. My witness stand. My silent stage.And though I didn't know it yet, it was from there that the next act of my life would begin.

Change did not tiptoe quietly into my life. It crashed like a tidal wave, uprooting every familiar thing and leaving me gasping for air in a world that suddenly felt too vast and too cold. Switching to PCM wasn't just a matter of new subjects or a new timetable — it was a rupture, a seismic shift in my identity and my future.The night before that first day, I stood in front of the class monitor, heart pounding so hard it felt like it would shatter my ribs. My voice cracked as I asked him, almost begging, to tell me what they had studied recently. It was a desperate grasp at stability — a fragile lifeline tossed into a sea of uncertainty. I was the new girl, the outsider, the girl who didn't quite belong anywhere yet.

When the morning came, I walked into the classroom feeling invisible and exposed at the same time. I chose the last desk, hoping the shadows would shield me, but my eyes betrayed me — the board's letters blurred and danced cruelly, forcing me to move forward until I sat behind two boys, Matheo and Louis. They didn't know then how much they would change everything.Louis's voice broke the silence like a sharp knife through fabric. "Give me your lunch meals, and share with the ones you sit with." His words were casual, but I felt the gravity behind them — a thread of connection thrown to me, and I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't care. Not yet. I was tangled in my own storms.Later, the math teacher shifted my seat—banishing me to a spot so far back I could barely hear, let alone be part of the class. But I rebelled quietly, slipping to the front where I could see the faces of Louis and Matheo clearly again. I claimed that small victory like a lifeline, a reminder that I still had some control in this chaos.I was loud when everyone else was quiet. I sang out loud in the classroom, unapologetically, and it grated on the nerves of my classmates, especially Louis and Matheo. Their teasing wasn't kind—it was relentless, a constant reminder that I was different, a disruption to their carefully ordered world. But I refused to silence my voice. I would rather be hated for being myself than loved for being someone I was not.At night, I shared a bed with Loren—not out of closeness, but necessity. I didn't have my own bed yet, and so we slept side by side in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. When finally given a bed of my own, I met the other girls from my new class, but we remained distant, speaking only when forced. We were islands in the same sea, never quite close enough to touch.Then one Wednesday evening changed everything. The matron was late opening the dorms after weekly sport, leaving Anna and me stranded outside. I found myself talking more than I should, words pouring out like floodwaters after a dam burst. She listened, and something fragile and precious began to grow between us. Our conversations became frequent, a secret thread weaving a fragile bridge across my loneliness.But beneath the fragile warmth of new friendships, the storm was still brewing. The chaos of this new beginning was not just about surviving in a new class or winning over classmates. It was about fighting for identity, for respect, for a place to belong without losing myself.I realized I was no longer the quiet, confident girl who had once walked those halls with certainty. I was becoming someone else—someone raw, vulnerable, and fiercely alive.And this was only the beginning.