It was early morning, and the hallways echoed with the sound of tiny shoes shuffling across the floor. Mina felt it again — the familiar nervousness, like a weight pressing on her chest. Her shoulders hunched slightly, her arms stiff at her sides, and she waddled in a way only she knew: a penguin walk.
She hated it. Hated that her body betrayed her feelings like this. But it happened whenever she was nervous, scared, angry, or just… overwhelmed. Today, it was all of those.
The teacher noticed immediately. "Mina, why are you walking like that? Stop acting out!"
Mina wanted to explain, wanted to shout, This is my body! It's how I feel! But she stayed silent, holding in the frustration. She had learned long ago that explaining often didn't help.
In the classroom, the whispers started. Some kids giggled quietly. Some stared. Mina felt her face heat up, but she didn't let it stop her from helping a classmate pick up dropped pencils or from quietly comforting a friend who was tearing up over math homework.
Her big brother Taro had once told her, You're too strong sometimes, Mina. But strength isn't just about holding back tears. It's about knowing when to use your heart.
Mina tried to remember that as she navigated the day. Even though her walk looked funny, even though she felt misunderstood, she still had the power to make someone else feel safe. She held onto that thought, letting it guide her through whispered insults and ignored questions.
By the end of the day, as she walked home with Taro, Mina let herself breathe a little easier. The penguin walk was still there, still awkward and uncontrollable at times, but it was hers. It was a part of her, just like her empathy, her stubbornness, and her quiet strength.
She smiled faintly. One day, she decided, maybe no one would notice the walk — maybe no one would understand — but that didn't matter. She knew who she was. And for now, that was enough.