Molly's Perspective
Another day of school… another day of school…
I should be happy about it. Another day of meeting others outside of my hostel, another day of talking to people about my personal life—sharing experiences, connecting, laughing over pointless conversations. A normal day for a teenager in high school.
That's what it should be.
Friends are made, people bond, and some even find someone special to hold dear. They talk, they share, they exist together in this little world we've built for ourselves.
But… I don't want to go to school.
---
Creak.
The door groaned as it opened, its hinges scraping against metal, dragging out a slow, tired song. It reminded me of how I felt inside. I barely lifted my feet as I stepped forward, my shoes whispering against the floor.
Across the modest office, seated behind a desk, was Mr. Gents—the school counselor. He was in his late twenties, dark brown hair slightly tousled as though he had been running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze, sharp and perceptive, met mine the moment I walked in, his expression unreadable.
For a brief second, he studied me. Not just looked—studied. Like he was flipping through pages of a book and deciding which chapter I had walked in with today. Then, just as quickly, his features softened. His brows eased, his lips curved into something faintly resembling a smile.
I hated that.
I didn't want his sympathy.
I sat down on the empty chair opposite him, my hands gripping the hem of my skirt, twisting the fabric between my fingers. My throat felt tight, my chest oddly heavy, like I had swallowed words I couldn't let out.
"Miss Molly Bolton, is there a reason you're in my office today?"
His tone was light, but I could hear the undercurrent of concern beneath it. He was good at this—playing the balance between approachable and professional.
I lowered my gaze to my lap, unwilling to meet his eyes. My lips parted, but the words wouldn't come.
A deep breath.
"…I… I-I'm fine, t-thank you…"
The words felt brittle, like they'd snap if I said them too loudly.
Mr. Gents sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Well, from how you just responded, I can tell something is bothering you. C'mon, out with it."
His voice was playful, but not dismissive. He was giving me space—room to step forward if I wanted to.
I don't.
"It's… something I don't feel comfortable sharing." My fingers clenched tighter around the fabric of my skirt. "But… I have been trying to be more open."
A lie. A half-truth at best.
Mr. Gents studied me again, this time with a different kind of intensity. He placed a hand under his chin, his index finger tapping against his cheek in thought. Sunlight from the window cast a golden glow on his hair, making it look almost soft, gentle—so at odds with the weight I felt pressing down on me.
"Amella told me you've been acting differently lately," he finally said. "I wanted to schedule a session with you, but things have been a bit hectic." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, as if brushing away his own excuse.
Amella.
I should have known.
"I see." That was all I could say.
Amella had been worried sick about me. I appreciated her concern—I did—but at the same time, I didn't want her involved.
I didn't want her to go through what I did.
"Well?" Mr. Gents leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. "Are you comfortable enough to share?"
My heart clenched.
I didn't want to talk. Not about this.
So I did what I always did.
"It's nothing serious, Mr. Gents." I forced a smile, hoping it would be convincing. "I just wanted to ask about career paths. You know, what I can do with what I have in mind to study."
Silence stretched between us.
The weight of my lie settled in my stomach, twisting, curling, tightening.
That's right.
I lied.
---
The sun hung lazily in the sky, still climbing, casting a dull glow over the school grounds. A light breeze tugged at my hair, strands lifting and swaying before falling annoyingly into my face.
I sighed, brushing them away, my feet dragging as I walked down the stairs.
Ring!
The sharp vibration of my phone snapped me out of my daze. I fished it out of my skirt pocket, glancing at the screen.
Amella.
My thumb hovered over the answer button.
I hesitated.
A familiar weariness settled over me. I could already picture the conversation—the concern in her voice, the same cycle of questions.
"Are you alright?"
"How was the meeting with Mr. Gents?"
"Have you eaten today?"
I cherished my friendship with Amella, I really did, but her constant worrying was starting to wear on me. It felt like she was watching my every step, waiting for me to slip.
I pressed the decline button.
A deep breath. I took another step down—
Ring!
Again.
I clenched my jaw, exhaling through my nose. Pulling the phone out again, I glanced at the name on the screen.
Amella.
Persistent, aren't you?
The sun, once bright, was now swallowed by thick, looming clouds. I sighed, pressing accept this time.
"Oh! You picked up!" Amella's voice came through, bright and full of relief. "Hehehe, so, I was thinking… um… Do you wanna hang out?"
I blinked.
Hang out?
Was she doing this out of pity?
My grip on the phone tightened. "Look, I'm feeling ver—"
"Not feeling well? I know." Amella cut in before I could finish, her tone shifting from playful to something more determined. "But the food at the restaurant I have in mind will heal you of your sickness."
Her enthusiasm caught me off guard.
I opened my mouth to argue, but the way she spoke—the certainty, the way she refused to let me spiral back into isolation—made it really hard to say no.
I exhaled sharply, twisting the tip of my hair around my thumb. A faint, reluctant smile crept onto my face.
"…Okay, fine."
"Yay! Okay, I got the perfect spot."
Her voice was bubbling with excitement.
For the first time in a while, I didn't mind it.