Abigail - Love, Family and Friendship

The Rose and the Thorn

If there is a day that scares me most, it's my birthday. It's a reminder that I'm another year older, another year closer to... what? Another year of trying to make my life something meaningful, I suppose. Another year of pretending I have it all together when inside, I feel like a mess. Turning 18 should feel like a milestone, but for me, it's a deadline. A deadline to finally get it right. To finally be something more than the pretty face everyone notices but no one really knows.

The truth is, beauty is a curse when it's the only thing people see. They look at me, and I can see the way their eyes flicker-first to my face, then to my body, then to my eyes, searching for something deeper. But they never find it. I don't blame them. I'm beautiful, yes. But beauty doesn't mean anything when it's the only thing you're allowed to be.

Academics? Not my strong suit. I'd never say that aloud to anyone, but it's true. I get by-just enough to keep me from failing-but I'm nowhere near as brilliant as Jane, my roommate. She's got everything figured out, or so it seems. It's like she was born with the perfect balance of intelligence and grace. Me? I'm the one who shows up late to class, scribbling down notes and hoping they make sense later. But what does it matter? My future isn't going to be decided by my grades; it's going to be decided by my ability to survive-emotionally, mentally, and physically.

And then there's the prom. It's supposed to be the night I've been dreaming of since I was a little girl. Everyone says it's the night you'll remember forever, but I can't help but wonder: what if no one remembers me? What if I'm just another girl in a sea of faces, another girl who pretended to be something she's not?

Dear diary, you're the only one who listens, even when I don't make sense. I don't know why I'm so scared of growing up. Of facing the future. Maybe it's because I know that nothing will ever truly change, not really. But I have to try, don't I? 18 isn't just a number. It's a promise to myself-to do better, to be better, to not keep running away from what's inside of me. I can't keep hiding.

Maybe this year, I'll start picking up the pieces. Maybe this year, I'll finally be more than just the rose and the thorn.

My roommate

Jane's laughter echoed in the dorm room, light and unrestrained, as Abigail sat cross-legged on her bed, scribbling in her journal. The sunlight streaming through the window framed Jane like an angelic figure, her fingers dancing over the keys of her piano. Abigail often envied the way Jane's brilliance shone so effortlessly, as though every movement and note came with purpose. Where Jane was a symphony, Abigail often felt like an unfinished melody, beautiful but missing something.

"You're doing that thing again," Jane said, her fingers pausing on the ivory keys. She didn't look up, but her voice carried a playful edge.

"What thing?" Abigail asked, though she already knew. She twirled her pen between her fingers, bracing herself for the usual teasing.

"That thing where you write like the world's about to end. Your 'dear diary' entries. What's this one about? Existential dread? The meaning of life?" Jane turned, her smile as dazzling as her music, teasing yet warm enough to melt any defence.

Abigail smirked and rolled her eyes. "Very funny. It's not like you don't pour your soul into every note you play. At least my journal doesn't wake the neighbours."

Jane laughed, tossing a pillow in Abigail's direction. "Touché. Still, one of these days, you've got to let me read something. You're hiding a poet in there, I just know it."

Abigail caught the pillow and hugged it to her chest. "Not happening. My thoughts aren't ready for public consumption."

Jane grinned mischievously. "Oh, I'll get them one day. Mark my words."

A sudden knock at the door interrupted their banter. Rachel, their next-door neighbour and the unofficial gossip queen of the school, poked her head in. Her red hair was tied up in a high ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Girls, have you heard?" Rachel began, her voice a stage whisper. She didn't wait for an answer before launching into her story. "Liam Daniels got caught sneaking into the art studio after hours. Apparently, he was painting a mural for Miss Wilson. And get this-it's her portrait!"

Jane's eyebrows shot up as she exchanged a wide-eyed look with Abigail. "Wait, Miss Wilson, the chemistry teacher? The one who lectures us on 'professional boundaries?"

"Exactly!" Rachel's grin was triumphant, like she had personally uncovered the scandal. "He said it was for a 'class project,' but everyone knows he's been crushing on her since last semester."

Abigail chuckled, closing her journal with a soft thud. "And this is why I stick to writing in my little book. Safer that way."

Rachel flopped onto Jane's bed, narrowly missing the piano. "Oh, please. Like you two don't have secrets worth spilling. Come on, what's new in your lives? Jane, any love letters slipped into your piano case lately?"

Jane groaned, covering her face dramatically. "Don't remind me. Someone actually wrote me a poem last week and signed it 'Your Future Duet Partner.' It was both adorable and cringeworthy."

Abigail snorted. "Aww, your secret admirer is musical. Maybe it's destiny."

Jane threw a pillow at Abigail this time, her laugh bouncing around the room. "If that's destiny, I want a refund."

The bell rang, signalling the start of the day's classes. Rachel jumped up, her gossip radar already scanning for more juicy titbits. "Gotta go, ladies. Can't be late to history. Mr. Carter's glare is enough to ruin anyone's morning."

Jane grabbed her books, her enthusiasm infectious. "Come on, Abby, let's not miss chemistry again. I don't want to give Rachel more stories to tell."

As they left the room, Abigail found herself smiling despite the teasing and gossip. For all the chaos, there was something comforting about the rhythm of their little world, with Jane's laughter and the constant swirl of stories binding them together.

A Day in class.

The classroom hummed with quiet activity. Whispers and the occasional stifled laugh punctuated Mr. Carter's steady lecture on revolutions-American, French, and others Abigail couldn't name if her life depended on it. The faint squeak of a chair and the rhythmic tapping of a pencil added to the background noise, but none of it seemed to faze Mr. Carter, who kept his focus firmly on the blackboard.

Abigail sat by the window, chin resting on her hand, her gaze drifting to the sparrow outside. It hopped along a branch, carefree and oblivious to the classroom's low-grade chaos. Abigail envied it. Inside, the air felt stifling, filled with the anticipation of prom and the endless comparisons that followed her like a shadow.

"Miss Abigail," Mr. Carter's voice cut through her thoughts. Her stomach flipped as her head snapped up. The room turned to her-a sea of curious faces, all waiting. "Perhaps you can explain why revolutions occur?"

Her throat went dry. "Uh..." She scrambled for something, anything, that sounded intelligent. "They... bring change?"

It came out weak, like a question rather than an answer. Laughter rippled through the room, soft but enough to make her cheeks burn. Abigail sank lower in her seat, wishing she could disappear.

Mr. Carter's expression barely shifted, but the faintest twitch of his lips suggested amusement. "A start, I suppose," he said with a hint of sarcasm, turning back to the blackboard. "Perhaps next time you'll give us more to work with."

As the laughter subsided, Abigail caught Jane's eye from across the room. Her best friend gave a small shake of her head and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. Moments later, the note landed on Abigail's desk, perfectly aimed. She unfolded it under her textbook, biting back a smile at the familiar handwriting. "Don't worry. You're not made for revolutions. You're made to inspire them".

Abigail rolled her eyes but felt the knot in her chest loosen. She glanced back at Jane, who gave her a quick wink before returning to her notebook, looking entirely unbothered by the world around her.

The class moved on, though Abigail remained half-distracted. Two rows over, Rachel whispered animatedly to her friend about Liam Daniels and some "big prom surprise" he was planning. Snippets of her words floated around-secret project, Miss Wilson, totally obvious. Meanwhile, Brad "accidentally" dropped his textbook, earning a mix of groans and chuckles from his classmates.

"Mr. Bradshaw," Mr. Carter said without missing a beat, "if you're planning a revolution against my patience, you're succeeding."

The laughter that followed was louder this time, cutting through the room's earlier tension. Even Abigail couldn't help but smile. Moments like these reminded her why, despite everything, she didn't entirely hate school.

Her gaze drifted to Ethan, the quiet boy who always seemed lost in his own world. He sat hunched over his notebook, scribbling furiously as though the words might escape if he didn't trap them fast enough. His lips moved faintly, forming silent words. Abigail wondered what he was writing-notes for class? A poem? Something about her? She pushed the thought away, feeling silly for even entertaining it.

The bell rang, jolting the room into motion. Desks scraped against the floor as students gathered their things in a hurry. Abigail stayed behind, taking her time as she tucked Jane's note into her journal. She wasn't in a rush; chemistry wasn't going anywhere.

Jane appeared beside her, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "Ready for chemistry?" she asked, her tone light.

Abigail shrugged. "Not really."

Jane smirked. "Hey, revolutions might not be your thing, but that glare you gave Carter? You could lead a rebellion. I'd follow."

Abigail laughed, the earlier embarrassment fading as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "I'll keep that in mind," she said as they stepped into the hallway.

The noise of lockers slamming and voices echoing filled the air. Beside her, Jane kept talking about the latest prom gossip, and for the first time that day, Abigail felt herself relax.

The Date Rejection

Later that afternoon, Abigail stood at her locker, carefully organizing her books. The hallway felt alive with the usual end-of-day commotion-laughter, hurried footsteps, and the clatter of locker doors. She tucked her journal into her bag

"Hey, Abigail."

She turned to find Tyler standing a few feet away. He was tall and confident, his letterman jacket slung over one shoulder. Tyler had that easy charm that made him the centre of attention without even trying, and his grin could light up any room-or so he believed.

"Hi, Tyler," she said cautiously, her hand lingering on the locker door.

He leaned against the neighbouring locker, the picture of nonchalant cool. "So, prom's coming up," he began, his tone casual but deliberate. "I was thinking... you and me. We'd make the perfect pair. Everyone knows you'd be the most stunning girl there."

Abigail tilted her head slightly, studying him. His smile was dazzling, his confidence radiating. But as she held his gaze, she saw the flicker of something else beneath the surface-an assumption, a certainty that she'd say yes simply because it was him asking.

"Thanks, Tyler," she said, her voice calm but firm. "That's sweet of you, but I'm going to have to pass."

The smile faltered, though only for a moment. "Wait, what? Why?" he asked, straightening. The disbelief in his voice was almost comical.

Abigail closed her locker with a soft click, her movements deliberate. "I think we both know why," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "You're not asking me because you like me. You're asking me because you think I'd look good on your arm. I'm not interested in being anyone's trophy."

Tyler blinked, caught off guard. "That's not what I-"

"Save it," she interrupted, her eyes steady on his. "Find someone who doesn't mind being a conquest."

The words landed with precision, For a moment, he looked unsure, his practiced charm buried beneath the depth of her rejection.

Abigail turned and walked away; her bag slung over her shoulder. The hallway seemed quieter now, the buzz of voices fading into the background.

Behind her, Tyler stood frozen, his hands shoved into his pockets as if searching for a comeback that never came. A few students nearby had overheard, their eyes darting between him and Abigail with curiosity. Whispers began to ripple through the hallway.

Abigail didn't look back. Her stride was confident, but her heart raced. She hated scenes like this, hated being the centre of attention for the wrong reasons. Still, she didn't regret it. Tyler wasn't the first to mistake her for someone who could be won over with flattery, and he likely wouldn't be the last.

As she reached the end of the hallway, she spotted Jane leaning against a wall, arms crossed and a knowing smile on her face.

"What?" Abigail asked, her voice tinged with exasperation.

"Nothing," Jane replied, though her grin widened. "Just wondering how it feels to crush the hopes of half the school in one afternoon."

Abigail rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. "He'll survive."

"Oh, he will," Jane said, falling into step beside her. "But his ego? That's going to need some serious recovery time."

They walked on, the tension of the encounter fading with each step. Abigail felt a strange mix of relief and pride. She hadn't backed down, and for now, that was enough.

The Dorm Room Confession

That evening, Abigail sat cross-legged on her bed, her violin resting against her shoulder. She played a soft, melancholic tune, letting the notes flow effortlessly into the quiet of their small dorm room. The faint hum of chatter and music seeped through the walls from neighbouring rooms, but inside, it was peaceful-until Jane broke the silence.

"So," Jane said, her voice tinged with mock seriousness as she stretched out on her bed. "Ethan smiled at me today."

Abigail paused mid-note, lowering the violin. "Ethan? As in Ethan Sanders?"

Jane grinned, a dreamy look washing over her face. "The one and only," she confirmed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands. "I'm telling you, Abigail, this is the year. He's going to ask me to prom. I can feel it."

Abigail arched an eyebrow, placing her violin carefully back in its case. "And what, exactly, makes you so sure?"

"Because," Jane said, sitting up and gesturing dramatically, "we have chemistry. Not the boring kind we suffer through in Miss Wilson class-the real kind. Sparks. Tension. That look."

Abigail chuckled, leaning back against the wall. "Ah, yes. The legendary 'look.' How could I forget?" She shook her head, her tone teasing but warm. "You sound like you've already planned the wedding."

"Not the wedding," Jane replied, waving off the comment. "Just the prom photos. Picture it: me in emerald green-my colour-and Ethan in a perfectly tailored tux. We'd be the couple of the night. You wouldn't understand, though."

"Oh, trust me, I understand," Abigail shot back, crossing her arms. "I just hope your Mr. Perfect isn't another Tyler in disguise."

Jane gasped, clutching her chest theatrically. "How dare you? Ethan is nothing like Tyler! Tyler's all flash and no substance. Ethan's... thoughtful. Artistic. He writes poetry, Abigail. Poetry!"

Abigail smirked but said nothing, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You'll see," Jane continued, undeterred. "Ethan's different. And when he finally asks me to prom, you'll be the first to know."

Abigail reached for her journal, flipping it open to a blank page. "I'll make sure to record this groundbreaking moment for posterity."

"Mock me all you want," Jane said, leaning back on her bed with a sigh. "But I have faith in fate. And fate," she added with a pointed look, "has been awfully generous to some people. Tyler asking you to prom? Please. You could have had anyone in this school, Abigail."

Abigail's smile faded slightly as she started jotting something down in her journal. "Not interested in being anyone's 'anyone.'"

Jane studied her friend for a moment, her teasing demeanor softening. "You know, you could go alone and still outshine everyone there," she said quietly.

Abigail looked up, her pen hovering over the page. "Maybe. Or maybe I'll skip the whole thing and save myself the trouble."

"Oh, come on," Jane groaned, throwing a pillow in Abigail's direction. "You're impossible."

Abigail caught the pillow mid-air and laughed, the sound filling the room and breaking the tension. "And yet, you keep me around."

Jane flopped back onto her bed with a grin. "Only because I need someone to humble me when Ethan inevitably sweeps me off my feet."

"Good luck with that," Abigail said, closing her journal and setting it aside. "Just remember: if he writes you poetry, make sure it's not recycled from a previous muse."

"Ha-ha," Jane retorted, throwing another pillow. "You're hilarious."

As the room quieted again, Abigail returned to her violin, playing a softer tune this time. Jane closed her eyes, her smile lingering as she listened. For a moment, all was right in their little world-two friends, dreams of prom, and music weaving between them like a shared secret.

The Secret Admirer

The practice room was Abigail's sanctuary. The familiar scent of polished wood and rosin wrapped around her like a comforting embrace as she stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. The muffled chaos of the school faded, replaced by the quiet hum of solitude.

She set her violin case on the scuffed oak table and unlatched it, her fingers moving with practiced ease. But as she opened the lid, her movements halted. A single rose lay atop her sheet music, its deep red petals soft and delicate against the worn fabric of the case. Resting beside it was a folded piece of paper, its edges slightly crumpled as if handled with care.

Her breath caught as she reached for the note. Unfolding it, her eyes traced the elegant handwriting.

You are a garden of roses, each petal a story, each thorn a truth. Your beauty is not in the colour of your petals but in the strength of your roots. And your eyes-oh, your eyes-hold the sparkle of morning dew, catching the first rays of sunlight.

At the bottom, the words Mystery Lover were scrawled in a hurried but deliberate script.

Her fingers trembled as she reread the poem, her heart beating faster with each word. She glanced around the room, half-expecting the poet to emerge from the shadows, but the room remained still. The piano stood silent, the music stands empty, and the only movement came from a dust mote dancing in the slanted sunlight streaming through the window.

Abigail's mind raced. Who could have written this? Ethan? The quiet poet in the corner of class, always scribbling in his notebook? Or was it someone else-someone she hadn't even noticed? A part of her wanted to dismiss it as a prank, another one of Tyler's arrogant ploys. But the words felt too intimate, too sincere to be a joke.

She ran her thumb over the soft petals of the rose, its delicate fragrance filling the air. Despite herself, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. The words in the poem spoke to something deeper, something she rarely allowed herself to believe: that she was more than her outward beauty, more than the girl everyone thought they knew.

Sliding the poem carefully into the pages of her journal, she placed the rose beside it, as if the two belonged together. She picked up her violin and raised it to her chin, letting the bow rest lightly on the strings. But instead of launching into the familiar pieces she'd practiced countless times, her fingers began to move instinctively, coaxing out a soft, lilting melody.

The notes were tentative at first, like whispers of an unspoken thought, but they grew richer, more confident, echoing her swirling emotions. The music became her voice, a wordless response to the poem's quiet reverence.

As she played, her thoughts drifted. Whoever had written those words had seen something in her that even she struggled to see in herself. And for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to imagine that she was more than a collection of thorns and petals.

When the last note hung in the air, Abigail lowered her violin, the spell of the moment lingering. She didn't know who her mystery admirer was, but their words had sparked something in her-a flicker of hope, fragile yet undeniable.

Slowly and quietly, she tucked the rose into her violin case and stood, casting one last glance at the empty practice room before stepping out into the hallway. Somewhere out there was the person behind the words, and though she didn't know if she'd ever find them, a part of her hoped she would.