2nd Day — Lost in Chalk Dust and Memory
Second day of spring.
The sun was softer today.
Not warm enough to melt old sadness,
but kind enough to sit beside it.
I was in class.
Second row from the window.
Maths — a subject that never made sense to me, just like most things in life.
I tried to focus.
The teacher’s voice sounded like distant thunder.
Equations danced on the board,
but all I could see were his words from yesterday…
> “Even sadness can bloom.”
And just like that, I was back on that bench behind the library.
Back in that moment —
when I wasn’t invisible anymore.
I didn’t hear my name.
Didn’t notice the warning glare.
A sharp snap!
A piece of chalk hit my forehead, jerking me back to the cold reality of the classroom.
> “Stand up!”
the arrogant teacher barked, eyes full of annoyance.
I stood, slowly.
But my mind?
It stayed behind.
With the boy who compared my pain to a red rose.
With the boy who didn’t know my name, but knew my silence.
> “Solve this equation.”
He pointed to the board, his voice sharp like broken glass.
I stared blankly.
I didn’t even try.
Because I wasn’t here.
I was in the memory of yesterday.
Of a voice that didn’t yell.
Of eyes that didn’t judge.
Laughter echoed from the back bench.
I became the joke again.
The girl who couldn't solve math… or herself.
But somehow,
I didn’t feel ashamed.
Because I had something they didn’t.
A moment.
A boy.
A kindness they wouldn’t understand.
I whispered, “I don’t know,”
and sat back down.
The class moved on.
So did the questions.
But I stayed still.
With a secret smile.
And a heart that whispered…
> “You’re not alone anymore.”
That evening, I went back to that bench.
He wasn’t there.
Just the wind and a stray leaf or two.
Still, I sat.
Because it had become a sacred place now.
A corner of the world where my brokenness had met warmth.
I opened my diary.
Wrote slowly, carefully:
> “Today, the world mocked me again.
But I didn’t break.
Because someone once saw beauty in my sadness.
And I’m starting to believe him.”
Sometimes, hope doesn’t come like fireworks.
It comes like a boy who notices you crying.
Like a line that stays in your head long after it’s spoken.
Like a math class you forget because your heart is somewhere else.
And that’s how it began.
The second day of spring.
And for the first time in a long time,
I wasn’t waiting to disappear.
I was waiting…
for him to return.
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Here is Day 3 — The Day He Came Back, rewritten in the poetic, emotional tone of Broken But Beautiful, now expanded to approximately 600 words — full of quiet heartbreak, healing, and that small, saving moment when someone chooses to stand beside you.
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3rd Day — The Day He Came Back
Third day of spring.
But the sun didn’t show up today.
Grey clouds covered the sky like forgotten sorrow.
The kind that lingers in corners no one bothers to clean.
I returned to the white bench behind the library.
The one I’d started calling ours in my mind —
though we never exchanged names,
and I didn’t even know if he’d ever return.
But today…
the bench was empty.
I stared at it anyway.
Sat beside the space where he once had been.
But there was no warmth this time.
No voice like rain falling gently.
Just silence.
Again.
But now it felt… lonelier.
I waited through lunch.
The bell rang.
Students ran past, laughing, loud, full of life.
But none of them were him.
I wanted to cry.
But I had done that yesterday.
And the day before.
So instead…
I walked to the field.
It was muddy from yesterday’s rain.
A group of students were kicking a football around.
And without thinking,
I walked toward them —
toward the noise.
I didn’t want to play.
I just didn’t want to be forgotten.
But I wasn’t like them.
I didn’t wear the right shoes.
I didn’t speak the way they did.
I didn’t know how to be like them.
And soon enough…
the comments began.
> “Who let her out of the poetry section?”
> “Look at those shoes — ancient!”
> “She’s probably here to cry on the football!”
Laughter.
Sharp. Cruel.
That laughter that makes you feel like you’re shrinking inside your own body.
I froze.
Hands at my sides.
Eyes fixed on the ground.
It wasn’t their words that hurt.
It was the reminder…
that no matter how many times spring comes,
some winters live inside people.
I was about to walk away,
to disappear back into the corners where I felt safe…
When I heard his voice.
> “The world laughs when it doesn’t understand.
You’re not weird.
You’re just… real.”
I turned.
There he was.
Dressed in the same wrinkled school shirt.
Hair messy.
Eyes calm — like he carried an entire library of secrets behind them.
The group went silent.
The boys didn’t laugh again.
They just scattered,
like leaves blown off by something stronger than wind —
maybe kindness.
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t ask if I was okay.
He just stood beside me.
Like a shield.
Like a quiet revolution.
And in that moment,
I didn’t feel small.
I felt seen.
I didn’t thank him.
I didn’t need to.
Because my eyes must’ve said it all.
The ache.
The relief.
The fragile gratitude you feel when someone chooses you —
without needing a reason.
That evening,
I sat on the bench again.
He didn’t come back.
But this time… it didn’t matter.
Because now,
I knew he’d return when I needed him most.
Not to save me.
But to remind me I didn’t need saving.
Just understanding.
In my diary, I wrote:
> “Today they laughed.
But he silenced them with silence.
And I realized —
sometimes, one person standing beside you
is louder than a thousand voices against you.”
Third day of spring.
And I was still standing.
Because he stood with me.
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