The Heart That Stayed Behind

Rain returned the next morning, not as a storm but as a fine mist — the kind that clung to windows and hair like secrets.

Pretty sat quietly on the wooden bench outside her classroom, the hem of her skirt slightly damp, her knees pressed together, and her bag hugged close to her side. She was scribbling something into her old journal — a diary she'd had since Grade 6, now filled with poems, doodles, and fragments of her life.

A line she wrote stayed on the page for a long while:

"Don't trust a boy who smiles too early."

She closed the journal.

Inside class, Mrs. Ndlovu gave them a writing task: "Write about someone who once made you feel safe."

Most learners began writing slowly, but Pretty just stared at her page.

Sphiwe's face kept rising in her mind — how he had stepped in when those two boys tried to mock her for being "too loud" and "acting like a boy." One had grabbed her schoolbag jokingly; the other had mimicked her voice.

Before Pretty even reacted, Sphiwe had walked up behind them like a warning in black shoes. He didn't say much, but the way he pulled that tiny silver knife from his sock was unforgettable.

"Wenzeni?" he had said quietly.

The boys froze. Apologised. Left.

Sphiwe had looked at Pretty. "I'm not crazy. Just tired of people messing with girls like you."

And then walked away.

During break, she saw him again — standing with Mpilo and Ntando near the corner where older boys smoked and gambled with coins. He glanced her way once, then looked down.

She didn't wave.

She didn't know what it meant.

"Do you think he likes you?" Promise asked later, walking beside her toward the toilets.

"I think he likes proving things," Pretty replied. "That's not the same."

Namisa caught up with them. "But would you give him a chance? I mean, he did kind of protect you."

Pretty scoffed, flipping her afro with flair. "Girl, even Superman has flaws."

They all laughed.

But deep down, something had shifted. Her thoughts kept returning to that moment — not out of attraction, but because it was the first time she had ever felt defended by a boy.

That afternoon, after school, the girls met near the big tree behind the tuckshop. It had become their unofficial spot — a circle of old rocks and benches, where jokes were shared and secrets whispered.

Sanelisiwe took out a packet of ghost pops, and Snothando passed around pieces of bubblegum. Namisa, as usual, listened more than she spoke.

"You guys ever had a crush in primary?" Pretty asked, casually.

"I did," Promise said. "He had big ears and prayed too much."

Everyone laughed.

"What about you?" Snothando asked, eyes fixed on Pretty.

Pretty shrugged. "There was someone. But I think I loved how he felt, not who he was."

"Name?" Namisa teased.

Pretty smiled. "Siyabonga."

The name floated into the air, soft and incomplete — like a raindrop that missed the roof.

Later that evening, Pretty helped her aunt peel potatoes. The kitchen was warm, lit by the yellow flicker of a paraffin lamp.

"School still going well?" her aunt asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"Any boys?" she added casually, half-joking.

Pretty paused. "Yoh! No, I'm focusing on passing Grade 8, not falling in love."

Her aunt chuckled. "That's my girl."

But her mind wandered again… not to Sphiwe, not really.

To the way her girl group sat in a circle, listening, laughing.

To Siyabonga's old laugh back in Grade 7.

To the way Adam — a class clown — kept throwing paper at her and calling her "Miss Radio."

The next day, during Life Orientation, they had to work in pairs. Pretty ended up with Adam. He smelled like Axe spray and trouble.

"You never smile when I'm near you," he said, pretending to be hurt.

"Maybe it's my way of surviving," Pretty replied.

Adam smiled. "You talk too much. It's cute though."

She rolled her eyes. "You're like a mosquito with nice shoes."

But when he leaned closer and said, "Tell me your number, mos," Pretty felt her stomach tighten — not in excitement, but discomfort.

"No," she said firmly.

And Adam laughed it off.

But it stuck with her the whole day.

Back at home, she wrote again in her journal:

"Just because a boy calls you pretty doesn't mean he sees you."

She drew a small umbrella beneath it — half open, half shut.

A few days later, another new girl arrived. Her name was Akhona. She had thick dreadlocks tied in a bun and walked like she wasn't afraid of anything.

Pretty was fascinated.

When Akhona asked to borrow a pen, their fingers touched.

That was the first time Pretty questioned the flutter in her chest.

At school, Promise noticed Pretty being quieter than usual. "You okay?" she asked.

Pretty nodded. "Just figuring out the difference between boys I like... and people who make me feel something deeper."

Promise smiled gently. "You'll know the difference when it's real."

Pretty smiled back, but in her head, she was already wondering if it could be Akhona.

That night, rain returned again.

And Pretty whispered to the wet ceiling:

"Let it pour. I'm not running away from myself anymore."