It started with a flyer on the cafeteria board:
*"Open Mic Night – Healing Is Also Loud."*
Friday, 6PM. Drama Hall Basement.
I wasn't going to go.
I don't "do" stages.
I barely "do" eye contact.
But then Tari showed up at my door holding a smoothie and a dare.
"You've got bars," he said. "Time to let them breathe."
I rolled my eyes. "I write for me. Not for claps."
"That's exactly why people need to hear it."
---
Friday night.
I sit in the back row, heart pounding like it's trying to escape me.
The mic looks taller than I feel.
Tari goes first.
He doesn't dance.
He talks.
About his brother—Elijah—who OD'd last summer.
About watching someone you love slowly disappear while pretending not to notice.
His voice doesn't break.
But his silence between lines does.
The room doesn't clap at the end.
They exhale.
Because grief isn't art.
It's truth dressed in performance.
---
Then it's my turn.
I don't remember walking up.
Only my palms sweating, knees threatening mutiny, heart screaming louder than the mic.
Then I speak.
Not with confidence.
But with necessity.
---
*"Poem: Instructions for Loving a Girl Who Doesn't Feel Real"*
*Do not ask her to smile.
She's done that for mirrors her whole life.*
*Instead, ask her what her silence tastes like.*
*Ask her where it hurts—then wait.*
*Don't touch her like she's fragile.
Touch her like she's still here.*
*Because she is.*
*She is.*
*Even when she doesn't believe it.*
---
When I finish, no one claps right away.
Then the room erupts—gently.
Snaps. A few quiet "yessss" sounds.
I don't cry.
But I feel something wet behind my ribs.
Something old, breaking open.
Making room.
---
Back at the dorm, Nene hugs me.
She doesn't say anything like "proud of you."
Just:
*"I knew you'd set the room on fire."*
I laugh.
Really laugh.
And for the first time in years…
I don't feel like a ghost trying to be brave.
I feel like a girl becoming.
---