Breaking Point

The morning hung low and colorless. Clouds pressed flat against the sky, and the courtyard stones were still slick from last night's rain. Cala sat near the old garden wall, legs folded, a half-torn parchment in her lap. She was drawing something — maybe the same thing she'd tried yesterday, or the day before that. It was hard to tell anymore. Every face came out wrong.

She exhaled, erased another line, and tried again. The worm came first — always the worm. She shaped its body into a spiral, then hesitated at the mouth. Something about it felt… too wide.

A voice broke the stillness behind her.

"I always thought the trickiest part was getting the eyes right."

She turned.

Cera stood just behind her, hands behind his back, sleeves neat, expression unreadable. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.

"It's not the eyes," Cala said, not quite meeting his gaze. "It's the whole face. It keeps changing."

He stepped closer and crouched, slow and careful, as if approaching a creature that might startle.

"Maybe that means you're remembering it wrong," he said softly. "Or maybe it means it wasn't a face at all."

Cala looked down at the page again. The lines blurred a little. She blinked them clear.

"It's supposed to be Leor," she mumbled.

"Mm."

Cera tilted his head. "You draw him often."

"I don't want to forget," she said. "Everyone else did."

"And Ian helped you remember."

That wasn't a question. Cala nodded anyway.

"He listened," she said. "He didn't make me feel stupid."

"Of course not," Cera said.

"The best listeners rarely do."

His voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't kind, either. It was quiet in the way paper cuts are quiet — small, but sharp, and only obvious once it stings.

"He never told me what to think," Cala added, a little firmer.

"No. That's what makes it so easy to trust people like him."

She paused. "What do you mean?"

Cera didn't answer right away. His gaze rested on her drawing again.

"It's easier to be trusted," he said, "when you let the other person think it was their idea."

The words landed like mist. She didn't flinch, didn't argue. Just stared at the page a little harder.

"I remembered Leor before Ian said anything," she said quietly. "I think."

"Then it's a fortunate coincidence," he murmured.

"You remembered exactly what he needed you to."

Cala didn't respond. Her pencil hovered over the page, unmoving.

"It's not your fault," Cera said after a moment.

"You're kind. That's a strength. Some people… take comfort in that. Especially when they're unsure of themselves."

He stood.

"You're not in trouble, Cala. You're doing just fine. You've been very brave."

She nodded once. But she didn't look up.

Cera brushed the creases from his robe.

"I'll see you inside soon. Take your time."

He walked away without waiting for a response.

Cala sat still. The breeze lifted the edge of her page.

She redrew the worm — curled tighter this time, like it was bracing for something. The figure beside it had no face now. Just a blank space, and the start of something that might've been hair.

Her stomach felt hollow. Not sick. Just… full of questions she couldn't line up in the right order.

She wasn't scared of Ian. She just… didn't know what she was supposed to do next.

And she hated that even thinking that felt like a betrayal.

She tore the page out and folded it in half.

Then sat alone in the courtyard for a long time.

A little ways off, near the stairwell that led up to the classrooms, Isabelle paused mid-step.

She glanced back.

Across the courtyard, she saw Cala — small and still beside the garden wall.

Cera was already walking away, his stride unhurried, hands tucked behind his back.

Isabelle watched Cala for a moment. Something about her posture looked… off.

Like she was holding something too tightly in her hands.

But then the bell tower clicked.

And Isabelle turned and went inside.

The teacher entered with her usual quiet presence and a scroll pressed to her chest. The class straightened—not from respect, but from habit. Isaac tapped his pencil. Isabelle folded her hands neatly. Ian stared ahead, silent.

The teacher began to read, voice calm and smooth as ash:

"Scripture tells us not only to shield the weak but to beware—

For not all who approach the wounded come bearing balm."

A pause. Then:

"Some offer comfort only to chain.

Some offer aid only to control."

Ian's stomach turned.

"And some, children, may not even know the damage they do."

There was a stillness.

Then the teacher gave a faint smile. Almost regretful.

"Sometimes, those who think they're helping…

are the ones doing the most harm."

"Enablers."

That word settled on the classroom like a velvet knife.

From the middle row, Cera spoke softly. Not loud enough to seem disruptive. Not quiet enough to go unheard.

"Some people know how to make a child think it was all their idea."

Ian turned his head slightly.

Cala didn't look up. She stared at her parchment. Her hands didn't move.

Ellion cleared his throat. "Not trying to start anything," he said. "But… I mean, come on. It's been weird, right?"

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. Isaac stopped tapping.

"What's been weird?" Tomas asked cautiously.

"Ian," Ellion said, glancing toward the back of the room. "With Cala. He's always around her. Always walking her home. Always sitting near her. Always—watching her."

"He's just being nice," Tomas said, a little firmer.

"Sure," Ellion replied. "But it's always just them. Alone. Always."

A few students murmured. One girl—Adelyn—nodded slightly.

"He did take her to the storage room," she said. "That day she cried."

"Door was closed," Lita added.

"Lights were off."

"She came out red-eyed," someone else muttered.

Ian's voice cut through the air. "She was upset. I was helping her."

Ellion shrugged. Soft. Slow. "You sure about that?"

Ian's jaw tightened.

"She gave him that rock," Lita said. "Called it a charm. He kept it."

"That doesn't mean anything," Ian said quickly.

"You didn't throw it away," Ellion said. "You liked that she gave you something."

"Because I didn't want her to feel alone!"

"And she didn't," Cera said softly. "She trusted you completely."

A hush. Then Adelyn, barely audible:

"He said he'd remember for both of them. What's that about?"

Ellion looked around. Gaining confidence.

"And she believed it. Like he needed her to."

"You think he planned this?" Tomas asked. "That he wanted her like that?"

"No," Ellion said. "But maybe he liked being needed. Maybe he made her need him."

"That's not what happened!" Ian snapped. "She was falling apart! None of you helped her!"

"So you made yourself the answer?" Ellion asked. "Made her grief about you?"

Cala flinched.

"He was with her when she started remembering," Lita said. "That can't be a coincidence."

"They went into the storage room?" someone asked quietly

"She came out shaking." someone else responded

"Maybe she realized what he really wanted." Ellion added

Ian stood, knocking over his chair. "That's not what happened!"

"So tell us," Ellion challenged. "Tell us what did happen."

Ian opened his mouth. His breath caught. His words stuttered.

"He told her not to tell anyone," Lita said.

"He made her keep secrets."

"He wanted her dependent."

"Maybe," someone breathed, "he touched her."

Silence. Deafening.

Tomas stood. "Enough! You're twisting everything. You're taking scraps and spinning monsters."

"We're seeing," Ellion said. "Finally."

"You're accusing a friend," Isabelle snapped. "Without proof. Without decency."

"And you're defending him," Ellion replied. "Like always."

Isaac stood, slow and cold.

"You're defending a guy who got too close to a little girl."

"Say that again." Isaac stepped forward.

"He was the only one who listened to her." Isaac says

"Yeah? Maybe that's what he liked." Ellion retorded

"Shut your mouth." Isaac was now threatening him.

"Why? Because he was her hero? Because he was there?"

"Because he cared."

Cala's voice broke through, small and trembling:

"He was just trying to help me."

Ellion didn't blink.

"You hear that? He told her he was helping her—when he tou—"

"The hell did you just say?" Isaac roared.

"Maybe."

"He."

"Touched."

"Her."

A desk crashed back as Isaac lunged. Two strides and Ellion was against the table, collar clutched tight.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!"

His fist cracked into Ellion's mouth.

"SAY IT AGAIN—"

Another blow. Ellion staggered. Isaac tackled him, taking out two desks.

"YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

Fist after fist. Ellion's lip split. Blood sprayed.

"SAY IT AGAIN! SAY IT TO MY FACE!"

"Isaac—STOP!" Isabelle screamed.

Tomas tried to pull them apart. Failed.

Ellion struck back once. Caught Isaac's jaw. The two rolled. Crashed into another desk. Screams rose.

Cala sat frozen. Hands over her ears. Tears streaming.

"Stop," she whispered. "Stop it, please—"

Ian backed against the wall. Breath short. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

He didn't move.

And in the far corner, untouched:

Cera stood.

Silent.

Still.

Smiling.

Like he was watching art unfold.

The teacher didn't raise her voice. Didn't even look up.

She unrolled her parchment. Her voice gentle. Cold.

"Let not the hand of rage cast stones in haste."

"Let not the wounded become the wielder of wrath."

"For trust, once broken, festers—and turns sweet water into blood."

Cala shook. Couldn't breathe.

Then a hand touched her shoulder. Gentle. Too gentle.

Cera.

He knelt beside her. Calm. Eyes clear. Detached.

"Come now," he whispered. "You shouldn't have to see this."

She blinked. Dazed. Confused.

He offered his hand.

She took it.

Ian watched.

Cala—red-faced, trembling—looked back at him once.

Then she followed Cera out the door.

Quietly.

Without another glance.

Behind them, chaos. Isaac still swinging. Isabelle crying his name.

The teacher's voice floated above it all:

"And those who feed wrath shall be fed to it."

"And those who birth fear shall be called its mother."

Ian didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't breathe.

Cera's final words rang in his head like a quiet, triumphant toll:

"Some people know how to make a child think it was all their idea."

The door clicked shut behind them.

The hallway was cooler. Dim. The flickering lanterns on the wall swayed slightly, casting long, soft shadows that barely touched the floor.

Cera walked slowly. He didn't drag her.

He didn't speak.

Not at first.

Cala's footsteps were uneven. She wiped her face with her sleeve, but the tears kept coming — silent now. Not sobs, just streaks.

"You're shaking," Cera said gently. "Let's sit."

They reached a bench near the side stairs. He helped her down. Sat beside her. Not close — just enough to be there.

She didn't look at him. Her legs dangled. Her hands sat knotted in her lap.

"I hate them," she whispered. "All of them."

Cera tilted his head. Not surprised.

"Even Ian?"

She hesitated. Then shook her head. "No."

A beat passed.

"But you're not sure anymore," he said softly.

Cala blinked. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Silence. The walls creaked slightly with wind. The old bell above the hallway swayed without sound.

"Cala," Cera said, "I believe you. I always have."

That made her look at him.

"You believe me about Leor?"

Cera gave a sad smile.

"I believe you remember something that matters to you."

Cala's brow furrowed. "That's not the same thing."

"No," he said. "It isn't."

Another pause. His voice lowered.

"But maybe… that's what Ian liked."

She blinked at him. "What?"

"Being the only one who believed you. Being the one you leaned on. You said he was helping you, right?"

She nodded slowly.

"Sometimes people help… because they want to be needed. Not because it's right. Or healthy. Or safe."

She turned her head.

"Ian wouldn't hurt me."

"No," Cera said gently. "But maybe he didn't think he was."

That landed differently.

"Sometimes people don't know when they're crossing lines. Especially when they're trying to feel important."

Cala stared down at her knees.

"It's not your fault," Cera added. "When you're young, and someone shows you kindness, it's easy to believe they must be good. But real kindness doesn't need to be kept secret."

Her voice was small. "He didn't make me keep anything secret."

"No?" Cera asked, softly. "Did you tell anyone about the storage room? About the rock? About how often he held your hand?"

Her lips parted. "That wasn't—"

"Did you tell anyone he said he'd remember for you? That he'd carry the burden instead of you?"

She froze.

"Or that he told you people wouldn't understand?"

Cala looked up.

And for the first time, her face didn't hold defiance.

It held confusion.

"He didn't mean it like that," she whispered.

"I know," Cera said. "But you're a child. And he's not. And that's why it's not your fault."

Her eyes filled again.

"But I trusted him."

"And that's what hurts the most, doesn't it?"

She nodded. Slowly. Once.

He leaned forward.

"You're not alone anymore."

"You're safe now."

Down the hall, footsteps echoed faintly — another class ending.

Cera stood and offered his hand again.

"Come. Let's walk."

Cala took it. Not sure why.

Not sure of much anymore.

The bell above them swayed again.

And made no sound.