CHAPTER SEVEN: THE GIRL IN THE GLASS

The first time Syra understood her beauty was a currency she never asked for, she was nine years old and crying in a school bathroom stall. 

The teacher had scolded her for distracting the boys during math lessons. "You must be more careful with your smiles," Mrs. Song had said, adjusting her headscarf with fingers that smelled of chalk. "Some things are too bright to be left uncovered." 

Syra was ten years old when she experienced firsthand how her beauty was not just a gift but also a burden. It was a crisp autumn morning, and the streets were alive with the sounds of vendors hawking their wares and children laughing as they made their way to school. Syra walked hand in hand with Nasreen, her small fingers clutching her mother's tightly. She wore her school uniform—a crisp white blouse and a pleated blue skirt—and her hair was tied back with a red ribbon, a splash of color against her dark curls.

"Remember, *azizam," Nasreen said as they approached the school gates, "if anyone says anything unkind, you tell the teacher. And if you feel uncomfortable, you come straight home. Understand?"

Syra nodded, though she didn't fully grasp the weight of her mother's words. To her, school was a place of learning and friendship, a world where she could lose herself in books and stories. But Nasreen's eyes were filled with worry, a silent acknowledgment of the dangers that lurked even in the most innocent of places.

The schoolyard was a whirlwind of activity, children running and shouting, their voices blending into a cacophony of joy. Syra spotted her friend Mei Ling and waved, her face lighting up with a smile. Mei Ling waved back, but her expression was guarded, her eyes flickering toward a group of girls standing nearby.

"Syra," Mei Ling said quietly as Syra approached, "you should be careful. Xiao Hui is saying mean things about you again."

Syra's smile faltered. Xiao Hui was the ringleader of a group of girls who had taken to whispering behind Syra's back, their words laced with envy and spite. They called her "the foreign girl" and mocked her for her mixed heritage, their cruelty masked by false smiles and honeyed words.

"I don't care what they say," Syra said, lifting her chin defiantly. But deep down, their words stung, a sharp reminder that she was different, an outsider in her own home.

---

The classroom was a sanctuary, a place where Syra could lose herself in the rhythm of learning. Her teacher, Mrs. Zhang, was a kind woman with a gentle smile and a passion for literature. She often praised Syra for her quick mind and thoughtful answers, her words a balm to the wounds inflicted by her peers.

But even here, Syra could not escape the weight of her beauty. As she sat at her desk, her pencil moving swiftly across the page, she felt the weight of someone's gaze. She looked up and saw Mr. Chen, the school's math teacher, standing in the doorway. His eyes lingered on her, his expression unreadable.

Syra quickly looked away, her heart pounding. She didn't understand why his gaze made her feel so uneasy, but she knew instinctively that it was wrong. She glanced at Mei Ling, who was busy writing in her notebook, and wished she could confide in her friend. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled up in fear and confusion.

---

That afternoon, as Syra waited for Nasreen outside the school gates, Mr. Chen approached her. His smile was warm, but his eyes were cold, like shards of ice.

"Syra," he said, his voice smooth and practiced, "you're such a bright student. I was wondering if you'd like some extra help with your math. I could tutor you after school."

Syra's stomach churned, and she took a step back, her hands clutching the straps of her backpack. "I… I have to ask my parents," she stammered.

Mr. Chen's smile didn't waver. "Of course. But don't wait too long. Opportunities like this don't come often."

Before Syra could respond, Nasreen appeared, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. She stepped between Syra and Mr. Chen, her posture protective.

"Is everything alright?" Nasreen asked, her voice sharp.

Mr. Chen's smile faltered, and he took a step back. "Just offering some extra help," he said smoothly. "Your daughter is very talented."

Nasreen's eyes bore into his, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with tension. Then she turned to Syra, her expression softening. "Let's go home, *azizam*."

As they walked away, Syra glanced back at Mr. Chen. He was still watching her, his smile gone, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. She shivered and clung to Nasreen's hand, her heart heavy with a fear she couldn't name.

---

That evening, as Syra lay in bed, she stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. She thought about Mr. Chen's offer, about the way his eyes had lingered on her, and about the whispers of the girls at school. For the first time, she understood what Nasreen had meant when she said her beauty was both a blessing and a curse.

In the next room, Nasreen and Li Wei spoke in hushed tones, their voices laced with worry.

"We can't let this go on," Nasreen said, her voice trembling with anger. "She's just a child, Wei. She shouldn't have to deal with this."

Li Wei sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. But what can we do? We can't keep her locked away."

"We can teach her to be strong," Nasreen said fiercely. "To stand up for herself. To know her worth."

Li Wei nodded, but his eyes were troubled. "It's not enough, Nasreen. The world… it's not kind to girls like her."

Nasreen's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. "Then we'll change the world. For her."

---

As Syra drifted off to sleep, her dreams were filled with shadows and whispers, a reflection of the world she was beginning to understand. But amidst the darkness, there was a flicker of light—a spark of resilience that would grow stronger with time, a promise that she would not be defined by the cruelty of others.

For now, she was just a child, fragile and uncertain. But deep within her, a fire was beginning to burn, a fire that would one day light her path and guide her through the storms to come.

----

Syra could feel them even now, years later—

Her classmates had been whispering again, their voices sticky with envy, the kind that clung like burrs beneath skin. They didn't understand why the teacher always smiled when Syra answered. Why boys tripped over their words when she passed by. Why their own mothers made offhand comments like, That Alizadeh girl is too pretty for her own good.

It wasn't a compliment. It was a warning. A verdict.

The whispers followed her like shadows

Syra had only wanted to blend in. To sit in the middle row and draw quietly in the margins of her notebook. But even her silence was too loud for the world around her.

They looked at her like she was something polished and breakable.

Not a person.

A mirror they didn't ask to stand beside.

At twelve, she stopped making eye contact.

At fourteen, she stopped smiling in public.

At fifteen, she mastered the art of self-deprecation—always laughing at herself first, before others could do it for her.

And still, they stared.

---

—Now—

The mural watched from above, Lou's half-formed face catching the fractured moonlight through the studio windows. His eyes followed her wherever she went, as if he were still here, waiting, and watching.

Syra lay curled beneath it like a fallen brushstroke, her cheek pressed to the concrete floor where a single drop of vermilion paint had dried years ago—the exact color of childhood shame.

Syra lay curled on the floor beneath it, her cheek pressed to cool concrete. Her body ached, but it was the kind of ache that came from too much stillness. Not the kind that healed.

Memories rose like bile without permission.

— A college party. The boy who told her no one would ever believe she hadn't wanted it.

— A gallery review that praised her "aesthetic" but not her technique.

— Her ex whispering "Just trust me" as he unbuckled his belt, her voice caught in her throat, her hands frozen.

— The silence that followed when she said no.

— The way he looked at her afterward—not like a lover, not like a monster. Just like someone disappointed in a product that didn't deliver.

She hadn't told anyone.

Not even Lin.

Not even Jia.

Some things lived better in the dark.

---

She had never had real friends—

Not until Lin showed up with two cups of tea and no expectations.

Not until Jia sat beside her in silence and said, You don't have to be nice to be safe.

Before them, other girls had kept their distance.

Laughed too hard. Complimented too quickly.

Then turned cold the second someone else noticed Syra existed.

She was always either too much—or not enough where it counted.

---

The mural didn't flinch.

Just like the boy who told her "No" was just a challenge.

Just like the ex who called her broken.

Just like the professor who said her face would take her further than her skill.

Her beauty had always spoken louder than her art.

She remembered the Helen myth—

How men blamed the war on her, not on the men who started it.

How a thousand ships burned, and somehow, she was the villain.

The face that launched a thousand tragedies.

And now Lou.

Lou Yan, who didn't look at her like the others.

Who had never once reached for her without permission.

Who didn't look away when she was angry. Or quiet. Or afraid.

Who offered tea instead of praise.

Stillness instead of lust.

And that terrified her more than anything.