If hope had a smell, it would be espresso, printer ink, and old school hallway dust.
Monday.
Three days since we'd shown the first cut of Where I'm From. Two days since Makayla's text. Zero days since I'd actually answered her.
Her apology sat in my messages like an unanswered voicemail from another lifetime. Every time I opened my phone, those last three words stared back at me.
I'm sorry.
I wasn't ignoring her. I was… pausing.
"Still thinking about it?" Miles asked, sliding a cup of coffee across the kitchen island toward me.
"I'm thinking about lots of things," I said, wrapping my hands around the warmth. "Like how you keep trying to make me like coffee when we both know I'm a hot chocolate girl."
He smirked. "That one has more milk than coffee. It's basically a latte with trust issues."
I took a cautious sip. It wasn't bad.
He watched my face. "And?"
"And I'm not admitting you were right," I said. "But it's drinkable."
"High praise," he said. "I'll put that on my résumé."
He hopped up to sit on the counter across from me, bare feet swinging, hoodie half‑zipped. Monday sunlight slid in through the windows, making dust float like tiny galaxies in the air.
My phone buzzed on the island.
Not Makayla this time.
Seraph: meeting in media room b4 lunch ms t wants 2 talk doc
Niqua: if she cancels it I'm chaining myself 2 the projector
I sighed.
"Crisis?" Miles asked.
"Unknown," I said. "Ms. Torres wants to talk about the doc."
"Which part?"
"The 'you made half the class feel things and now we have to figure out what happens next' part, probably," I said. "Or the 'Tia is absolutely cooking up some chaos' part."
He studied my face. "How do you feel about what happens next?"
My brain immediately showed me twelve conflicting slides.
Slide one: my face on more screens. Slide two: more kids telling their stories. Slide three: Makayla sitting in our interview chair. Slide four: me having a panic attack about slide three.
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "I like what we started. I like that it's not about Dan. I like that, for once, my name is in people's mouths for something that isn't a mess."
"But?" he prompted.
"But if it gets bigger," I said, "that means more eyes. More opinions. More chances for people to twist it. And I'm tired of being twistable."
He hopped down and came around the island, leaning his hip against the counter beside me.
"You know you can want good things and still be scared of them, right?" he said.
"Look at you with the emotional intelligence," I muttered. "Who taught you that?"
He tapped his temple. "Therapist," he said. "When I kept punching other dudes instead of talking about my feelings."
I blinked. "You went to therapy?"
He shrugged, suddenly shy. "Court‑ordered once. Chose it after that," he said. "My dad thought it was dumb. My mom thought it was witchcraft. It helped, though."
I hadn't known that.
"What did they say?" I asked.
"About what?"
"About… being seen," I said. "About people thinking they know you because they saw you fight once."
He looked at me for a long second.
"They said I can't control the story people tell about me," he said slowly. "But I can control who I believe. And who I let close. Everybody else? Background noise."
"Easier said than done," I muttered.
"I didn't say I was good at it," he replied. "Just that it's possible."
He nudged my coffee toward me. "Go to the meeting," he added. "If you hate where it's going, you can always walk away."
I shook my head. "No I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I started it," I said. "With that stupid ocean line. With the receipt."
"And?"
"And if I walk now, it'll feel like every other time I bailed when things got hard," I said quietly. "When I shut up instead of speaking up. When I left instead of fighting for myself."
His expression softened.
"Then don't walk," he said. "Steer."
By the time I got to the Media Studies room, my stomach felt like it had learned tap dance.
The door was half open. I could hear voices inside.
"—not saying we make it about that," Mason was saying. "I'm just saying people are already talking. We can pretend it's not part of the context, or we can—"
"I'm not putting Dan's face in my film," Seraph cut in. "Over my dead, beautifully contoured body."
I pushed the door open.
They all turned.
Seraph, perched on a desk, hair in space buns today. Niqua sitting cross‑legged in a chair, headphones around her neck. Mason at the computer. Ms. Torres leaning against her desk, arms folded.
"Hey," I said. "Sorry. Cafeteria line was a war zone."
"You missed the part where I threatened to commit crimes in the name of art," Seraph said. "It was very romantic."
"Tragic, even," Niqua added.
Ms. Torres gestured me in. "Come on, ocean girl," she said. "We were just talking next steps."
My heart did a weird little jump at hearing my nickname in her mouth. Different from when Miles said it. Still familiar.
I slid onto the empty chair beside Niqua.
"Okay," Ms. Torres said. "Quick recap. The four of you made a solid pilot. The class responded well. I've had six different students ask if they can be featured. I've had two other teachers ask if they can show it in their classes. I've also had"—she sighed—"three emails from parents asking what exactly you're doing with their children's faces on camera."
"Oops?" Mason said.
She gave him a look. "Welcome to the joys of consent and liability," she said. "We're covered for the kids who signed releases. If this grows, we need a clearer process. We also need to decide: is this staying in‑house, or do you want to aim bigger?"
"Bigger how?" I asked.
"School‑wide screening," she said. "End‑of‑semester assembly. Maybe a cut submitted to the citywide youth film festival. Online release later, if you—and everyone featured—agree."
My pulse spiked.
Film festival.
That sounded like another universe.
Seraph's eyes were already sparkling. "Red carpet energy," she breathed. "Nervous breakdowns with snacks."
Niqua elbowed her. "Focus, Hollywood."
"And then there's this," Ms. Torres added, glancing at the whiteboard.
In big letters, someone—probably Seraph—had written:
WHAT ABOUT THE TEA?
Under it, in smaller letters, Mason had scribbled: Context, not content.
"We're not doing a hit piece," I said quickly. "We already said that."
"I know," Ms. Torres replied. "And I agree. But we also can't pretend our school exists in a vacuum. Social media is part of the story for a lot of you. Not just you, Jayla."
"Exactly," Mason said. "This morning in homeroom, Diego was talking about how his dad only believes news if he sees it on Facebook. Asia was saying her aunt learned more about her depression from TikToks than from talking to her. That's… something."
My brain hummed.
"This doesn't have to be 'the Jayla drama doc,'" Niqua said slowly. "But maybe… one of the later pieces could be about that? Not naming names. Not clips. Just… us talking about what it's like to have your life turned into content without your consent."
"Like a 'who owns your story' segment," Mason added. "Kids who've been misquoted. Filmed without asking. Turned into memes."
I thought about the bathroom that day in fourth period. About Tia mid‑hallway commentary, about Dan's smirk, about comments calling me crazy from people who'd never even pronounced my name right.
My stomach twisted—but there was a spark under it.
"If we do that," I said carefully, "it has to be on our terms. No reposting their crap. No free promo. No 'both sides' false balance."
"Agreed," Ms. Torres said at once.
"Just kids talking," Mason said. "Looking straight at the lens and saying, 'This is what it felt like when my worst night became someone's favorite video.'"
The room went quiet.
"That's… a lot," I said.
"It doesn't have to be now," Ms. Torres replied. "We can keep building the foundation first. More 'Where I'm From' pieces. More students. Families. Then, if you're ready, you add that layer."
"Like chapter twenty‑something in a book," Niqua said, bumping my shoulder. "You don't start with the twist."
She wasn't wrong.
"How many pieces are we talking?" I asked. "If this becomes a full project."
Mason pulled up a list on the screen.
"We've got us four," he said. "Asia and Jamal want in. That theater kid—Remy—cornered me and volunteered. Diego. That quiet girl from the back—Alia—asked if she could talk about Palestine and Brooklyn. That's nine. We cap it at, like, twelve?"
"Twelve vignettes," Ms. Torres said. "Each three to five minutes. That's a full‑length screening if you string them together. With interludes. Maybe some narration."
They all looked at me.
Of course.
"Narration?" I repeated weakly.
"Doesn't have to be a voice of god," Ms. Torres said. "Could be you reading some of your own words. Or lines from other kids' interviews, stitched together. But you started this. Your voice can be the frame without being the whole painting."
My brain tried to imagine my voice floating over shots of hallways, street corners, living rooms.
It tried to imagine my voice not cracking.
It couldn't—yet.
But something in my chest leaned toward it anyway.
"Can I think about it?" I asked.
"Of course," she said. "Nothing moves without your consent. Any of you."
Seraph raised her hand. "I consent to being famous," she said. "Just want that on record."
We all snorted.
Ms. Torres rubbed her temples. "I walked into that," she muttered.
We spent the rest of the lunch period sketching a rough outline:
Segment 1: Me, Seraph, Niqua, Mason (already done).Segment 2: Asia & Jamal—art and responsibility.Segment 3: Diego—moving every year.Segment 4: Alia—home as a country and a borough.Segment 5: maybe Tia, if she ever said yes.Segment 6: "Stories & Screens"—the social media piece.
By the time the bell rang, my notebook was full of arrows and questions, my brain buzzing with more plotlines than a novela.
"Alright, team," Ms. Torres said as we packed up. "Think on it. Sleep on it. Don't commit to anything new until it feels like a yes in your gut and not just your guilt talking."
Her eyes flicked to me on that last part.
Targeted.
Correct.
The rest of the day passed in a weird blur.
In English, Ms. Carter had us reading a short story about a girl who changes her name when she moves countries. Half the class argued about whether it was "betrayal" or "survival." I underlined a line about choosing who gets to say your name.
In math, I absolutely failed a pop quiz and decided not to spiral about it for once.
At my locker after last bell, I found a folded note stuck through the vent.
No one writes actual paper notes anymore.
I glanced around. No obvious suspects.
My pulse climbed as I unfolded it.
I don't expect you to forgive me.I don't expect to be in your movie.But if you want my "where I'm from" without the bullshit, I'll sit in your chair.
I won't say his name.
— M
I stared at the scrawled M.
Makayla's handwriting. Drama‑class loopy, the tail of the y swooping back like a wave.
I read it twice. Three times.
"Without the bullshit."
Part of me bristled.
Like she was implying everything I'd posted was fake.
Another part of me… softened.
Because for the first time, she wasn't asking to talk about Dan. Or about me.
She was offering to talk about herself.
"Whatchu got there?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Seraph leaned against the locker next to mine, chewing gum like a villain.
"You have the stealth of a stampede," I hissed, shoving the note into my pocket.
Her eyes narrowed. "Is that from who I think it's from?"
"Depends who you think it's from," I hedged.
"Makayla," she said immediately.
I sighed. "Then yes."
She held out her hand. "Show me."
I hesitated.
"Squad or nothing," she reminded me.
I pulled the note out and passed it over.
She read it, chewing slowing.
"She really said 'without the bullshit,'" Seraph muttered. "Bold from a girl whose favorite hobby is subtweeting."
I snorted despite myself.
"What do you think?" I asked.
She folded the note back along its creases, thinking.
"I think…" she said, "if she sits in that chair, it should be because you want her story in your project. Not because you feel like you owe her airtime to prove you're not the villain she made you out to be."
"That sounds like a trap," I said.
"It's not," she replied. "It's a boundary. Same thing we talked about with Dan. You don't owe them space."
"But it could be… honest," I said slowly. "To show that even the people who hurt us have their own 'where I'm from.' That they're not just monsters."
"And are you ready to hold that?" she asked. "To sit across from her and listen without punching her? Because I will not stop you if you swing. I will film it."
I laughed, nervous and real.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Part of me wants to hear it. Part of me wants her to disappear into the background like an extra."
"Then don't decide yet," Seraph said. "Let her sit with the not‑knowing for once. She's made you live there long enough."
She handed the note back, then looped her arm through mine.
"Come on," she added. "Niqua found a new pizza place with slices bigger than your face. We need carbs to process trauma."
I tucked the note into my notebook, next to a doodle of a wave.
Later, I told myself.
I'd decide later.
That night, after way too much pizza and a failed attempt at homework, I sat cross‑legged on my bed, notebook open, pen hovering.
My phone lay face‑down beside me.
I flipped to a blank page.
At the top, in messy block letters, I wrote:
CHAPTERS I HAVEN'T LIVED YET
Under it:
Talk to Makayla on camera? Off camera? Not at all?Call Layla about the film.Ask Miles what he'd say in the chair.Survive senior year.Go back to the ocean.
My hand moved on its own, scribbling fragments.
Home is the water.Home is the hallway.Home is the people who stay when the credits roll.
A soft knock on my door pulled me out of my scribble trance.
"Come in," I called.
Miles slipped in, shoulders filling the doorway.
"Your mom's on the phone with your abuela," he said. "I escaped before she could ask me about my 'intentions' again."
I snorted. "Coward."
He grinned, then his gaze slid to my notebook.
"Planning world domination?" he asked.
"Something like that," I said, snapping it shut.
He flopped onto the bed beside me, lying on his back, hands behind his head.
"You know," he said, staring at my ceiling, "if you ever point that camera at me, I'm skipping the whole 'where I'm from' question."
I raised a brow. "You don't wanna talk about the underground ring prince of Brooklyn?"
"Please," he scoffed. "I'm not giving my fans more lore."
"Then what would you say?" I asked, curious.
He considered.
"Home is anywhere you stop looking over your shoulder every five seconds," he said at last. "And one thing I carry is… the version of me my mom still thinks I am. Before the fights. Before the cops. Before everything."
My chest squeezed.
"Why haven't you said that in therapy?" I asked softly.
He shrugged. "Maybe I'm saving the good stuff for your camera."
Heat rose in my face.
Silence settled between us, comfortable.
"Hey, Miles?" I said after a while.
"Yeah?"
"If I let Makayla sit in the chair," I said slowly, "would you think I was stupid?"
He turned his head to look at me.
"I think," he said carefully, "it depends why you're doing it."
"If I'm doing it because I want the project to feel… whole?" I asked. "Because I don't want to pretend she didn't shape this story?"
He nodded. "Then it's brave," he said. "Messy, but brave."
"And if I'm doing it because I'm scared people will say I silenced her?"
"Then it's guilt," he replied. "And you've let guilt drive enough flights for one lifetime."
I let his words sit.
"Would you be there?" I asked. "If I did it."
He smiled, small and certain.
"In the room or outside the door," he said. "Wherever you want me. I'll bring snacks. And an alibi."
I laughed, tension easing.
"Okay," I said. "Not deciding tonight. But… thanks."
He reached over and hooked his pinky around mine.
"Anytime, ocean girl," he said.
When he left, I opened my notebook again.
Under my list, I added one more line.
I am not what they did. I am what I direct.
Then I flipped my phone over, opened Makayla's text, and finally typed back.
Me:
I got your note.
I'm not ready to decide yet.
But if you ever sit in that chair, it'll be to talk about you, not him.
If you can't do that, it won't happen.
No hard feelings.
– J
Her reply didn't come right away.
For once, that felt okay.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, lay back on my bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Twenty‑four chapters in. Four left to live.
The ocean inside me rolled, not crashing this time.
Just… moving.
Toward something I was finally choosing on purpose.
Wave by wave. Scene by scene.
Mine.
And when sleep came, it wasn't with the sound of other people's voices.
It was with my own. Soft. Steady. Still learning. But finally, finally, loud enough to hear.