THE BROKEN DREAMS

The sun was sinking now.

It bled into the clouds like a dying thing.

Fred sat by the fence, the grass poking his knees, staring blankly ahead.

His tears had dried, leaving salty scars down his cheeks.

The world was moving — cars honking, students laughing — but inside him, there was only silence.

Heavy, sticky silence.

His battered guitar sat next to him, as useless and broken as he felt.

> "You sing nice,"

a soft voice said.

Fred didn't look up.

Probably another rich kid come to rub it in.

> "Even though they don't deserve to hear it."

That made him lift his head.

And for a moment —

he forgot how to breathe.

---

She stood a few feet away.

Leaning against the peeling fence like a ghost who had nowhere else to haunt.

A girl.

Maybe 19.

Maybe 20.

She had short curly black hair, like a crown of thorns.

Her skin was smooth, a dark mocha that shimmered even in the failing light.

Her clothes looked second-hand — a black hoodie two sizes too big, ripped jeans, old sneakers — but she wore them like armor.

Her eyes.

God, her eyes.

Dark. Haunted.

Like they had seen too much, and survived just enough to still pretend to be human.

Fred wiped his face quickly.

> "What do you want?" he croaked.

She shrugged.

> "Nothing. I was just... hiding."

> "From what?"

The girl smiled bitterly.

> "From the beautiful people."

---

She walked closer and flopped down next to him, without asking.

Fred tensed.

But she didn't seem dangerous.

Just... tired.

Like him.

For a while, they sat in silence.

Listening to the faraway sounds of celebration from the auditorium.

It was like listening to another world.

A world that didn't belong to either of them.

The girl picked up his guitar gently, as if it was a wounded animal.

Ran her fingers over the chipped wood.

> "They laughed at you."

Fred's throat tightened.

He nodded.

The girl turned the guitar around in her hands, studying the old carvings on its back — marks left by his uncle long ago.

> "You love it, don't you?"

Fred nodded again.

The girl looked at him then.

Really looked.

> "Don't ever let them break that love."

"It's the only thing they can't steal."

---

Fred found his voice.

> "I'm Fred."

The girl smirked.

It was a tired, cynical smirk.

> "Names are useless here."

Fred gave a weak laugh.

> "Tell me anyway."

She sighed, as if it hurt.

> "Naya."

Fred repeated it in his mind.

Naya.

It sounded like a secret.

Or a song nobody else was allowed to hear.

---

Fred noticed her wrists.

Scars.

Faint white lines crisscrossing the dark skin like secret maps.

Naya caught him looking.

She didn't hide them.

She didn't flinch.

Instead, she pushed up her sleeves higher, exposing more.

Fred swallowed.

He had met a thousand people at Sunrise University.

All dressed perfectly.

All pretending perfectly.

But none had ever been this... raw.

This real.

Naya leaned back against the fence, staring up at the bleeding sky.

> "You know the funny thing about dreams?" she said.

"They kill you slower than bullets."

---

Fred didn't know what to say.

So he said the only true thing he could.

> "I'm tired of fighting."

Naya closed her eyes.

A single tear slid down her cheek, unnoticed.

> "Me too, Fred."

Silence again.

But it wasn't empty this time.

It was shared.

Fred reached for his guitar.

Strummed a soft chord.

Naya didn't move.

But she hummed along — low, broken notes.

It wasn't perfect.

But it was real.

Two broken people, sitting by a forgotten fence, singing softly into a world that didn't want them.

---

As the last note faded into the air, Naya opened her eyes.

They were brighter somehow.

Sharper.

She turned to him.

> "Fred."

"Next time they laugh..."

"Promise me you'll play louder."

Fred stared at her.

At the girl who wore her scars like jewelry.

At the girl who didn't believe in names, but still told him hers.

At the girl who sat with him when everyone else walked away.

He nodded.

> "I promise."

Naya smiled then.

A real smile.

Small.

Sad.

But alive.

She stood up, brushed the dirt off her jeans.

> "See you around, slumdog hero."

And just like that —

She disappeared into the growing night.

Leaving behind only the echo of her broken halo.

And a boy with a guitar who, for the first time in a long time,

believed he might survive the next sunrise.

---