THE GIRL IN THE BLUE HOODIE

Chapter 1 – The Bus Stop

The first time I saw her, she was sitting alone at the bus stop outside our school gate, her blue hoodie pulled so far over her head that I could barely see her face. Everyone else walked past her like she was part of the bench—like she didn’t exist.

But there was something about her stillness that made me look twice.

I stood a few steps away, pretending to scroll on my phone, but really I was watching her hands. They were shaking. Not from cold. From something else.

When the bus arrived, she didn’t get on. She just sat there, staring at her shoes.

That’s when I realized:

She wasn’t waiting for a bus. She was waiting for strength.

Chapter 2 – A Small Beginning

The next day, she was there again. Same hoodie. Same quiet hands.

I walked up to the bench and sat beside her. Not too close. Just enough to say, I see you.

She didn’t look at me, but she didn’t move away either.

“Do you go to Willow High too?” I asked softly.

She nodded.

“What grade?”

“Ten,” she whispered.

Her voice was so soft it almost disappeared into the wind.

“I’m Thandi,” I said.

After a long pause she said, “I’m Kamo.”

That was it. Just names.

But sometimes names are enough to start something.

Chapter 3 – Cracks in the Quiet

By the end of the week, sitting with her became normal.

She still didn’t talk much. But she listened. Really listened. Her silence wasn’t empty—it was full of things she didn’t know how to say yet.

One afternoon, I caught her rubbing her wrist quickly, like she was hiding something. She noticed me noticing and shoved her hand into her pocket.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded too fast.

“You know you can talk to me,” I said gently.

She stared at the road, her hood shadowing her face. “If I start… I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop,” I said.

But she didn’t speak. Not yet.

Sometimes healing needs time.

Chapter 4 – The Art Room

One rainy Tuesday, she didn’t come to the bus stop. My stomach twisted all day thinking something had happened.

After school, I checked everywhere—the library, the hall, the yard—until I peeked inside the art room.

She was sitting alone at a desk, drawing circles over and over on a page. Hundreds of circles. Small ones. Tight ones. Like she was trying to hold herself together.

“Kamo?” I whispered.

She didn’t look up. But her shoulders relaxed slightly when she heard my voice, like she was relieved I found her.

“You scared me,” I said, sitting down beside her.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“For being… like this.”

I shook my head. “Don’t apologize for existing.”

Her pencil stopped. Her eyes lifted. And for the first time, I really saw her—tired, hurting, but trying.

Chapter 5 – What She Finally Said

Two weeks later, she finally spoke.

Not in loud words. Just one sentence.

We were sitting on the bench outside the art room when she whispered, “My dad… gets angry.”

The way she said angry made my stomach drop.

She didn’t need to explain. I understood.

I didn’t say “I’m sorry.” People say that too easily.

Instead, I said, “You’re not alone.”

Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t let fall. She nodded once, slow and shaky.

That moment changed everything.

Chapter 6 – Brave Enough

Kamo didn’t magically become confident. She didn’t suddenly talk a lot or remove her hoodie or smile all the time.

But she changed in small ways.

She started sitting with me at lunch. She answered questions in class occasionally. She laughed once—quiet and soft like she was embarrassed by the sound.

One afternoon she said, “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I replied.

“You sat next to me,” she said. “That’s not nothing.”

And I realized she was right.

Sometimes showing up is the most powerful thing you can do.

Chapter 7 – Seen

Months passed, and people finally started noticing her. Teachers. Classmates. Even the bus driver.

But I noticed something else:

She still wore the blue hoodie sometimes, but her hands didn’t shake anymore.

One day, as we walked home, she said, “I used to feel invisible.”

“And now?” I asked.

She smiled—small but real.

“Now someone sees me.”