Grade 9 didn't arrive like a fresh page.
It came heavy, already written on, already bent at the corners.
After Grade 8 ended, I moved straight into Class K. School had finally returned to face-to-face, and everyone treated it like a resurrection. People smiled more. Laughed louder. Teachers talked about "new beginnings." But for me, there was no reset button. Life didn't work like that.
That year carried happiness in one hand and grief in the other—and neither let go.
Before school even reopened properly, everything shifted at home. My dad got himself into family trouble, and because of that, we had to move. Leaving my grandaunty's house felt like someone tearing a root out of my chest. I loved her deeply, even when I tested her patience. She was my grounding point. My example. The quiet proof that stability could exist.
I once promised her I'd get rich one day. Not as a joke. Not as a flex. As a vow. When I said it, she smiled at me—a smile that wasn't loud, just knowing. Like she could already see a future version of me standing taller than I was. That image stayed with me long after we walked away.
Red Hills Road felt unfamiliar, unfinished. Like a house you sleep in but don't dream inside. My second older brother Jay came to stay with us too. He was quiet, easygoing, the kind of person who didn't need to speak to be understood. Brown-skinned like most of my family. I stood out without trying. I took my dad's colour, his height, his presence. My mum was mixed—British, Indian, Jamaican—shorter, softer. My dad stood tall at 6'1, black, Canadian Jamaican. All of that blood ran through me, and still I felt incomplete.
School reopened, but I didn't.
What happened during the holidays clung to me like smoke. I couldn't let my face reveal it, so I hid it. I wore a black mask with a zip across the mouth—Tokyo Ghoul style. To everyone else it was fashion. To me, it was armor. The curve of the zip made it look like I was smiling. No one questioned it. No one asked what was underneath.
Second row. Far corner. Every day.
Being back at school helped me breathe. Home had grown tense, unpredictable. My mum had returned. They got married. I thought maybe that meant balance. Instead, it meant silence punctured by explosions.
One afternoon she was cooking and asked me to help. Told me to fetch something using a professional cooking term I didn't understand. I froze, unsure. Her frustration lit instantly. Before I could explain, her hand struck the back of my head—sharp, humiliating, sudden.
My dad rushed in. He saw it wasn't my fault. They argued. Voices rose. And then she said it.
That word.
Mistake.
It didn't just wound me—it erased me. When my dad snapped back something reckless, something violent out of anger, everything inside me accelerated. My heart slammed against my ribs. My vision tunneled. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I walked into my room and closed the door carefully, like if I did it too loudly, I might fall apart.
From that moment on, something went cold in me.
At school my face stayed dark. Still. Controlled. I felt like Job from the Bible—everything stripped away, faith tested without explanation. I stopped socializing. I hid inside my phone. Music became my confession booth. XXXTentacion said the words I didn't know how to form.
Sashelle came back into my life, not as a lover this time but as a companion. An ex, a friend, something-between. She made me laugh when it felt illegal to do so. Bentley stayed close. Somewhere between shared silence and shared dreams, he stopped being "my friend" and became my brother.
Then Rhianna re-entered the frame.
It started small—truth or dare, laughter, teasing. Then a dare that never finished because of a school announcement. An unfinished moment has power. Later, she messaged me. Casual words. Dangerous undertone. When she said "Monday, early," I didn't sleep properly for two nights.
Monday arrived cold and quick.
When she grabbed my bag strap and pulled me toward her, the world quieted. Her lips were soft, intentional. That kiss wasn't a joke. It wasn't peer pressure. It was chosen. After that, pretending was pointless. We were together.
I fell too fast and I didn't even try to brake.
We talked about everything—future kids, places we'd live, promises we swore we'd keep. I made videos of her just existing. She made me feel lighter, like the future might actually want me. When I bought her a chain with my initial, my hands shook so badly I couldn't clip it myself. People laughed. She smiled. That shaking wasn't fear—it was love exposing itself.
Before the arguments. Before the rumors. Before everything fell apart—there was a line I swore I wouldn't cross.
I made her that promise. I meant it.
One day she asked me to follow her. I did without thinking. She pulled out a chair, told me to sit. Looked at me like she already knew how this chapter would end. Asked if I'd done anything like this before. I answered honestly.
Her hands gripped my clothes firmly, warmth bleeding through fabric and doubt. She pulled closer. Whispered things that sent heat straight up my spine. My body responded before my convictions could speak. I tried slowing it down. Tried warning her. Tried remembering God.
She didn't stop.
Time blurred. Sensation took over. Her grip tightened. Her words grew softer, heavier. She told me I felt good. Told me she liked how close we were. I was drowning in closeness, breath shallow, sweat rising, faith quiet.
Afterward I felt emptied out. Calm. Older. Smaller. When my friend laughed later, saying I really did it, I laughed too—but it sounded false even to me.
At the time, I told myself it was just life. Just fun. I didn't yet know I'd stepped into something spiritual without understanding the cost. I believed in God, but I didn't yet know His order.
Then fear came.
Pregnancy. Panic. Sleepless nights. Plans whispered in desperation. And then loss—a miscarriage. A grief I wasn't prepared for. I mourned something I never held and somehow still felt responsible for.
And then death visited again.
My grandaunty Bev passed away.
I couldn't attend her funeral. I cried for days, apologizing into silence for the trouble I caused her, for the promises unfinished, for leaving without becoming who I said I would.
By report day, I placed second overall. Teachers praised me. My dad said he was proud—quietly, but enough. Miss Grant. Miss Samuels. They held me together without knowing they were keeping me alive.
Grade 9 took my innocence.
It took my certainty.
It took my safety.
But it didn't take my future.