The Truth of Me - Chapter 5
The Strength to Speak
The cafeteria was its usual chaos—trays clattering, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing from every corner. Ella sat at a small table near the back, her tray untouched. Across the room, Tara and the others were huddled at their usual spot, whispering and glancing in her direction.
She felt the familiar burn of their ridicule before they even spoke.
Mia slid into the seat across from her, gently placing her sketchbook onto the table. “Hey,” she said, her smile small but warm.
Ella glanced up, surprised. “Hey.”
Mia opened her sketchbook to reveal the finished drawing she’d mentioned during gym class. The figure she’d added—a lone girl in black standing at the edge of a moonlit forest—looked eerily like Ella.
“It reminded me of you,” Mia said.
Ella traced the lines of the figure with her eyes, the girl’s pose hesitant but strong. “It’s beautiful.”
“So are you,” Mia said, her voice quiet but certain.
Ella’s face warmed, a mix of gratitude and disbelief washing over her. Before she could respond, a burst of laughter erupted from Tara’s table.
“Hey, Ella!” Becca called out, loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear. “Love the funeral look. Who died this time?”
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Ella, waiting for her reaction.
Ella’s heart raced, but she didn’t look away. She felt Mia’s presence beside her, steady and grounding. For the first time, the weight of their words didn’t crush her.
Ella stood, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“No one,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering. “But thanks for asking. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
A ripple of laughter broke out—not from Tara’s table, but from a nearby group of students. The sound caught Tara off guard, and her face flushed with embarrassment.
Becca scowled, crossing her arms. “Oh, so now you’re funny?”
“No,” Ella said, taking a step forward. “I’m real. And I’m done pretending to be someone I’m not just to fit in with people who only like me when I’m fake.”
The cafeteria buzzed with murmurs. Tara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding Ella’s gaze.
“I didn’t—” Tara began, but Ella cut her off.
“You did,” Ella said firmly. “And it’s okay. I don’t need your approval anymore.”
For a moment, the room was silent. Then someone from another table clapped, followed by another, until the sound grew into a small wave of applause.
Ella’s chest swelled with a mix of relief and disbelief. She turned to Mia, who was grinning.
“Let’s go,” Ella said, grabbing her tray. Together, they walked out of the cafeteria.
That afternoon, Ella found a note tucked into her locker.
“Thanks for standing up to them. You’re braver than I could ever be. —C.”
Ella smiled, tucking the note into her journal. It was a small victory, but it mattered.
Over the next few days, more students began to approach her—quiet nods in the hallway, whispers of admiration, even a few compliments on her outfits. Slowly but surely, Ella was building a new kind of connection, one rooted in authenticity rather than pretence.
Mia became her closest ally, their shared love for art and introspection bridging the gap between their once-separate worlds.
One afternoon, Ella stayed after class to finish an essay. As she packed up her things, Tara lingered near the door, her usual confidence replaced by hesitation.
“Ella?” Tara said softly.
Ella looked up, surprised. “Yeah?”
“I just wanted to say... I’m sorry,” Tara said, avoiding her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”
“You did,” Ella interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. “But I appreciate you saying that.”
Tara nodded, her face flushing. “I guess I didn’t know how to handle... you changing. It felt like you didn’t want to be friends anymore.”
“I didn’t stop being your friend,” Ella said. “I just stopped pretending.”
Tara nodded again, biting her lip. “I get it. Or I’m trying to. Anyway... I’m sorry.”
Ella nodded, watching as Tara left the room. She felt no triumph in the apology, only a quiet sense of closure.
Walking home that day, Ella felt lighter. The world didn’t feel divided anymore—school and home, bright and dark. She was no longer hiding, no longer splitting herself in two.