Chapter Eight: Where the Light Doesn't Go
Kira didn't tell her mother Mina was coming over.
She didn't have to.
Her mother barely looked up from her phone when Kira walked through the front door, just waved vaguely toward the kitchen like a sleepwalker in conversation with someone else.
Kira stood there a moment, her fingers clenching the strap of her backpack, unsure if she wanted to turn around and warn Mina. But the knock came before she could move, soft and careful, like Mina knew already that this house was not the kind you entered loudly.
Kira opened the door and let her in.
Mina stepped past the threshold and immediately slowed—like she was stepping into a museum. Or a memory.
"This your place?" she asked, eyes scanning the narrow hallway, the faded rug, the half-dead potted plant sagging in the corner.
Kira nodded. "It's not much."
"I like it," Mina said, and then paused, catching herself. "I mean—I like you. So I like the parts that come with you."
Kira's lips curved just barely.
"Come on," she murmured, and led her down the hallway.
Her bedroom door was shut. Always. Even when she was alone.
She opened it slowly, letting Mina step inside first.
The room was small. Bed against the far wall. A battered desk with notebooks piled unevenly on the left, and a wide shelf of sketchbooks, some frayed and overused, others pristine. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of afternoon light sliced through the space between, landing like a spotlight on the floor.
Mina stepped in and turned once in place.
It smelled like pencil shavings and dust and something faintly citrusy—like an old candle burned down to its wick.
"This is where you live," she whispered, like the walls could hear her.
Kira shrugged and closed the door behind them.
She felt nervous. Too aware of the mess. Too aware of Mina. Of how little space there was between them now.
Mina sat on the edge of the bed.
Her fingers brushed a half-finished sketch Kira had left there—one of a girl standing alone in a crowd of blank faces, her outline the only thing drawn in dark pencil.
"You always draw people who don't look at you," Mina said.
Kira blinked. "What?"
Mina held the page up, her voice soft. "They're always turned away. Or their faces are half-shadowed. Like you're drawing ghosts."
"I don't know how to draw eyes," Kira said.
"I think you do."
Kira didn't answer.
Mina set the sketch down, gentler than most people would. "Do you draw me like that?"
Kira hesitated. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because you look at me."
They spent the afternoon on the floor.
Kira sat cross-legged with her back against the wall, her sketchbook open across her thighs, while Mina stretched out beside her, head resting on a folded hoodie. The room felt too small for all the air it was holding.
Mina kept talking—telling Kira about her little sister, about the time she almost failed Algebra but cried so hard the teacher gave her a B, about how she used to practice kissing on the inside of her arm when she was twelve.
Kira laughed once—surprised by the sound of it.
Mina grinned. "You laughed."
"I did not."
"You totally did."
"It wasn't a laugh," Kira said, flipping a page. "It was air."
Mina leaned up on one elbow. "Do you… want to kiss me again?"
Kira didn't look up from her sketchbook.
But her pencil stopped moving.
Mina's voice lowered. "Because I do. And I'm done pretending I don't."
Kira raised her eyes.
And nodded.
Once.
Mina crawled across the carpet, slow and deliberate, like every movement mattered. She knelt in front of Kira, reached up gently, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Then kissed her.
Soft.
Long.
Breathless.
Kira kissed back.
Not like the rooftop.
Not like the question.
This was an answer.
When they pulled apart, Mina rested her forehead against Kira's. "We should make a rule," she whispered.
Kira's voice was hushed. "What kind?"
"No hiding. Not from each other."
Kira's breath hitched. "Okay."
"Even if the world sucks."
"Especially then."
Mina smiled.
And that was the rule.
But the world didn't like rules it didn't write.
By Monday, it had spread.
Not just the photo anymore.
Someone had recorded the kiss—on the back steps, just the silhouette of two girls pressed together, framed by the brick wall and the gray sky.
It hit the school's group chat before first period.
By lunch, it had over a thousand views.
Kira didn't eat.
She didn't speak.
She barely breathed.
Someone trailed her in the hallway humming "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" under their breath. Someone else called her "Mina's sketchbook pet." A note appeared in her locker that said "dyke freak" in blocky black marker.
She didn't cry.
She just got quiet.
Smaller.
But Mina wasn't quiet.
When someone tried to trip Kira on her way out of third period, Mina grabbed the guy by the shoulder, spun him around, and told him to say it to her face.
He didn't.
But he laughed and walked away like she wasn't even there.
Mina's fists were shaking.
Kira touched her wrist. "Don't."
Mina's voice cracked. "Why not?"
"Because it's not worth it."
"Yes it is."
Kira stared at her.
And in that moment, Mina realized something else.
Kira had been through this before.
Maybe not exactly this—but the same shape of it. The cruelty. The isolation. The way people saw you and decided they had the right to name you out loud.
And Mina was just now feeling it.
For the first time.
That night, Mina couldn't sleep.
She kept refreshing her feed.
Watching the view count tick higher.
Reading the comments she shouldn't.
"Was this a dare?"
"God, they look desperate."
"Is this her coming out party?"
"This school is going downhill."
"Y'all should just get a room."
"I bet her parents are proud."
Mina closed the app and threw her phone across the room.
She sat there for a long time, breathing too fast.
Then she stood, crossed the room, and picked up her journal.
She flipped to a blank page.
And wrote:
I thought I was brave.
But being brave feels like bleeding in front of strangers.
And I don't know how to stop the shaking.
But I still want her.
Even if no one understands why.
Even if it means they all see me differently now.
She makes the world quieter.
That should mean something.
Doesn't it?
The next morning, Mina waited for Kira at the front gate.
Kira looked tired. Pale.
Her sleeves were longer than usual.
They didn't say anything.
Mina just took her hand.
In front of everyone.
And held it.
And walked inside.
People stared.
Whispered.
A few laughed.
Someone said "gross" loud enough to echo.
But neither of them let go.
Kira's hand shook for a moment.
Then it stilled.
She glanced sideways at Mina.
And whispered, "Thank you."
Mina squeezed her fingers. "Always."
That day, they sat in the library again.
Same spot as before. Between the shelves. Hidden, but not hiding.
Kira pulled out her sketchbook and flipped to a clean page.
Mina leaned her head on her shoulder and closed her eyes.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
But here, where the light didn't go, they stayed still.
Together.