There's a certain ache that settles in your chest when someone looks at you like a stranger — especially when they used to know your soul.
I walked into Literature class late — again. Miss Nneka didn't bother scolding me. She just gave that disappointed sigh teachers collect like paperclips. I mumbled an apology and slid into my seat.
The seat next to Zara.
She didn't look up.
Not even once.
It was a Thursday, the day we usually picked partners for the weekly group projects. I used to love Thursdays. Now, I hate them more than Monday mornings.
Miss Nneka clapped her hands. "Alright, two-by-two discussion today — pick a partner and I'll come around."
Zara didn't even turn her head.
Instead, she leaned toward Maya, the new girl with perfect eyeliner and a voice like spilled honey, and whispered something that made them both giggle.
I looked away fast. Like if I didn't see it, it didn't happen.
Then I heard it.
"Safiya can work with… I don't know. Jamila, maybe?" Zara's voice was soft but sharp enough to cut.
Jamila — the girl who once called me "emotionally slippery" because I didn't like sharing my business.
I nodded quickly before Miss Nneka could assign me to someone worse.
As Jamila dragged her chair next to mine, I tried not to feel like a charity case. I tried not to wonder what I had done to deserve becoming the leftover.
Halfway through the assignment, my mind drifted.
I kept thinking about the little things Zara used to do — braiding tiny plaits in my hair during free periods, sending voice notes of her off-key singing, calling me her "person" when no one else understood.
Where did all of that go?
What made her choose silence over me?
Later that day, in the hallway, I ran into Tariq — Zara's cousin. He used to tease us, call us "twins with a soul-bridge," whatever that meant
"Yo, you and Z fighting?" he asked, tossing a basketball between his hands.
I shrugged. "She's… just busy, I guess."
Tariq gave me a weird look. "She's been different lately. Don't take it personal."
"Yeah," I said, but I didn't believe it.
Because when people say don't take it personal, it's already personal.
That night, I sat at my desk and opened my journal.
I didn't write a poem. I didn't scribble her name or mine. I just wrote:
"I miss the version of myself that existed when she still loved me."