The girls behind the glass

Safiya's pov

The cafeteria buzzed like a hive—sweet laughter, plastic trays slamming, sneakers squeaking on tile. But for me, the sound was muffled. Like I was trapped behind a glass wall. Watching life happen to everyone but myself.

Zara sat three tables away. Hair curled like she knew the world was watching. Her new friends clung to her like perfume—Aaliyah with her flaming braids and sharp tongue, and Tamira, whose fake British accent clung like oil to every word she spoke.

They giggled at something. Then Zara leaned forward and whispered something into Aaliyah's ear. All three of them exploded into laughter.

I knew that laugh.

I used to be the secret behind it.

Now I'm just... background noise.

I peeled open my juice box with trembling fingers. The carton burst. Sticky orange ran across my skirt. Typical.

"Clumsy," a voice muttered.

I looked up. Kamal, my older brother, had passed by without stopping. He gave me the kind of look someone saves for broken toys.

He used to sit with me. Wait at my locker. Now he acted like I embarrassed him.

I scrolled through my phone later in class—just to escape for a second. That's when it came.

A message.

Unknown number. No profile photo.

"You think she'll ever need you again? Delusion looks good on you, Safiya."

I blinked. My hands turned cold.

Another one popped in seconds later:

"Maybe if you stopped acting so desperate, you'd still have friends."

I looked around. Who was watching me?

My ears rang. The teacher was calling someone's name, but it felt distant. I stared at the message like it was a slap.

Then the bell rang.

Outside school, I waited at the gate longer than I should've. I pretended I was just waiting for a ride. But really—I was hoping someone would come out and say it was all a prank. That Zara was sorry. That this was some huge mistake.

But no one did.

Just the security man. A boy on a bicycle. Two younger girls holding hands.

"Zara didn't walk home with you today?" Mrs. Imole, my neighbor, asked from her porch. She was folding laundry, but her eyes were sharp.

I lied without blinking.

"She had club. I think."

Truth was—Zara hadn't walked home with me in over a month.

I didn't remember the last time she said my name.

At home, the walls echoed. Mom was on a voice call in the living room. Dad wasn't home. Kamal had locked himself in his room again, probably texting her—the girl with lip gloss who liked heartbreak music.

I went to mine. Sat on the floor. Turned off my phone. And pulled out my old sketchpad from the box under my bed.

Page one: Zara and me. Stick figures holding hands. Hearts. Laughter.

Page two: A girl with no face. Standing in the middle of a crowd. Invisible.

Page three...

I didn't even think before I started.

I drew glass.

Shattered.

And in the middle, a girl bleeding from a hundred invisible cuts—but standing tall.

I titled the page in bold letters:

"Lilt."

This was my voice now. Soft, but sharp. Shattered, but still singing.