I screamed and jolted upright, my body drenched in sweat. My chest heaved, my face wet with tears. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The images still burned behind my eyes—blood, screams, shadows. Then I realized. It was only a dream. Again.
I buried my face in my hands, forcing myself to stay quiet so my new parents wouldn't hear. They were worried enough already. Slowly, I pressed my palms against my eyes until the trembling stopped, until I could pretend I was calm. But no matter how tightly I shut my eyes, the memory of that night always found me.
It had been five months. Five months since I lost everything. And still, every night, the same nightmare dragged me back.
After that night, a few days later a new family had taken me in. They were kind—so kind it sometimes felt undeserved. The first month in their home, I cried almost every night. My sobs kept them awake, but they never complained. They stayed by my side, whispering comfort until I finally slipped into restless sleep.
When they recommended therapy, I went along. I sat in the clinic, answered the questions, and listened to the gentle voice of the doctor. But nothing ever changed. My pain was too deep, my scars too fresh. Still, I pretended I was improving—for their sake. When they smiled at my progress, I forced myself to smile back.
And so, life moved on.
I started school again.
The first day, eyes followed me everywhere. Some students looked with pity, others with disgust, others with quiet fear. My background had spread quickly, whispering through the halls like a warning. That's the girl who lost her whole family.
I ignored it. I had to.
Weeks passed. Exams came. When the results were posted in the hall, I stared at the board in disbelief. My name was at the very top—perfect marks.
The whispers changed overnight. Suddenly, classmates who had once avoided me now greeted me with smiles, their voices dripping with false warmth. Their friendliness wasn't for me. It was for the title of "Top 1."
I knew better than to trust them.
Still, among the noise, two people stayed beside me for reasons I could believe.
Their names were Carm and Jela.
Carm was sharp-minded, the type you'd mistake for shy if you didn't know her. But once she spoke, you realized she had more words than silence could ever hold. Loud, witty, and unstoppable, she could argue with anyone about anything until they gave up.
Jela, on the other hand, was fire in human form—sporty, energetic, impulsive. She lived in constant motion, as if staying still was impossible. She and Carm clashed almost daily, their opposite personalities sparking endless bickering.
But when it came to me, they were united. Always.
Carm had no powers, just like me. Jela, though, bore hers with pride—razor-sharp claws that could cut through wood, stone, or flesh in an instant.
Together, they became my light.
It was during lunch break, a few weeks after the exams, that I realized just how much I needed them.
I sat alone by the window, staring at the clouds drifting across the sky. The classroom buzzed with chatter, but I barely heard it. My mind had drifted again, back to a place I didn't want to go.
"Boo!"
I nearly jumped out of my seat. Jela leaned over my desk, grinning from ear to ear, her nails clicking against the wood like tiny blades.
"Jela!" I gasped, clutching my chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"That's the point," she laughed, sliding into the chair beside me.
"Don't scare her, idiot," Carm scolded as she plopped down on my other side, her arms full of books. "She's already pale enough without you making it worse."
"I was just trying to cheer her up," Jela argued.
"Cheer her up? By terrifying her?" Carm shot back, rolling her eyes.
"Worked, didn't it? She's awake now."
Their bickering carried on, sharp and familiar, like two sides of a coin constantly clashing. I should have been annoyed—but instead, a small laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it.
Both of them froze, turning toward me.
"There it is," Jela said softly, her grin less mischievous, more warm.
"You should laugh more often," Carm added, nudging me with her elbow. "It suits you."
I looked between them, my throat tight. For the first time in months, I felt something close to safe.
Maybe… maybe I wasn't completely alone after all.
The days with Carm and Jela slowly became the anchor I didn't know I needed. They were chaotic, loud, and sometimes exhausting—but with them, I wasn't "the girl who lost her family." I was just… me.
At lunch, they argued about the best food at the canteen—Carm swearing by fried chicken while Jela claimed spicy noodles were "food of the gods." In P.E., Jela would drag us into games while Carm pretended to hate it, only to end up playing harder than anyone else.
And after class, we'd sometimes linger in the courtyard, sitting on the old stone benches beneath the fading light. Carm would read aloud from one of her thick novels, while Jela interrupted every five minutes with complaints, jokes, or ridiculous questions.
I found myself smiling more. Laughing, even.
But the nights were different.
When the world grew quiet and the lights went out, the dreams always returned. My parents' screams. My siblings' faces. The blood, the shadows, the silence. I would wake up with a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming too loudly.
Sometimes, when I walked through the school halls the next day, I thought I saw those shadows again—in the corner of my vision, in the flicker of a reflection. A reminder that peace, like laughter, was fragile.