The first blow didn't hurt.
The second made her ears ring.
By the third, she was on the floor.
"Stupid girl," her father hissed, breath thick with something sour. "What did I say about answering back?"
Sari tasted metal in her mouth. She didn't know what she said wrong. Maybe it was her silence. Maybe it was the way she didn't flinch fast enough. Maybe it was nothing.
Her mother stood in the kitchen, hands trembling over a cutting board. Not saying anything. Not looking.
The fourth hit came with a kick. Sharp. To the ribs.
Sari gasped but didn't scream.
She never screamed anymore.
•
She didn't remember leaving the house.
Didn't remember putting on her uniform, or slipping her books into her bag.
All she remembered was walking through school like a ghost wearing her skin.
Everyone said hi. No one looked closely.
She sat in class. She laughed when it was expected. She even answered one math question correctly. The teacher smiled.
Nobody noticed the way her left side flinched with every breath.
By sunset, the school had emptied.
Golden light spilled into the hallway like something holy — or maybe a trick.
Sari stood at the very end of it, near the emergency stairwell where no one ever went unless they were skipping class or sneaking a cigarette.
She climbed.
Each step felt like it weighed more than her entire body.
The rooftop wasn't locked. It never was. That was the school's first mistake.
The second was not knowing what kind of students really needed locks.
Sari stepped out. The wind greeted her. Gentle, like a lullaby.
She walked to the edge, looked down.
It wasn't that high. Three floors. Enough.
She didn't cry. Not this time.
Because she was tired of crying.
All her life, she had stayed. Stayed quiet. Stayed small. Stayed obedient. Stayed broken.
She had no dreams. No crushes. No future.
So why keep waking up?
"Don't do it," a voice called, as if from the wind.
Sari's body froze.
A figure leaned against the doorframe of the rooftop exit. Silhouette framed by light. Smoking.
That girl again. Alifah.
"…You."
Alifah didn't walk forward. Just took a long drag and blew it out slowly.
"Looks pretty from up there, doesn't it?"
"Don't," Sari said hoarsely. "Don't joke."
"I'm not joking. I know that kind of look. I've worn it too."
Sari turned away. The wind played with her hair like it wanted to pull her down gently.
"I'm tired," she whispered.
"I know."
"I don't want to go home."
"Then don't."
"…What?"
"Just don't go back."
Sari blinked. The voice didn't carry judgment or pity. Just… something heavy. Like someone who knew what it cost to keep breathing.
"You said I can't face my problems. Everyone says that."
"Everyone lies," Alifah said softly. "Sometimes the only reason you're still alive is because you didn't face them."
Sari stared at the sky. It was orange now. Bleeding into purple.
"You're saying I should run."
"I'm saying it's not wrong to."
Sari shook her head. "But… I have nowhere to go."
Alifah dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. "Good. That means you can go anywhere."
For a moment, Sari felt her knees give. Her chest cracked open, and a sound came out — part sob, part laugh.
"I'm scared."
"So was I," Alifah replied. "Still am."
"…If I come down, can you—can you stay a little longer?"
"I've got nowhere else to be."
That night, Sari didn't go home.
She didn't go to the police. She didn't tell her friends.
She just kept walking. Away from the bruises. Away from the silence. Away from the edge.
She didn't know where she was going.
But for once, that didn't feel like a bad thing.
—I didn't die today.
I think that counts for something.