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I expected to feel sick and guilty. I expected fear. No one ever tells you that anger can arrive before grief.

I used to think grief belonged to people you loved and lost. Maybe it also belonged to strangers whose ending reminded you life could be taken just as easily as it was given.

I keep engraving things on the table as the thoughts and anger grow louder in my head and when I look down, the lily isn’t a lily anymore. It’s stained with blood, a small drop of it.

I realized that the compass slipped. The point caught the side of my index finger and I stared at the tiny red line.

“Mireya, you’ve been bleeding for the past few seconds.”

His voice. That somehow makes me look up and leave that strange place I was in and I finally let go of the compass.

When I look around, the classroom is empty. I don’t remember when everyone left and this keeps happening. He might think I’m doing it on purpose, or that I’m insane for not even being aware of the noise disappearing around me.

He’s standing near his desk, watching me quietly and waiting for a reply.

Far from me always, as if even his concern has boundaries.

“I’m fine,” I replied after a few seconds.

His expression barely changes as he says, “I didn’t ask.” He then reaches for the first aid kit and places it on the corner of his desk.

I stand slowly, crossing the empty space between the rows of desks and take it.

“You went deeper than you thought.”

I look up and see that he’s still behind his desk, watching me with that unreadable expression he gets when he has already noticed something but is waiting to see if I’ll admit it myself.

“It’s a cut.”

"That's not what I said.”

My eyes drop back to my hand, the cut is straight and long on my finger. I pushed the compass deeper than I thought, but it didn’t hurt. I barely remember doing it. I remember the lily, and the first few lines carved into the wood. I remember how easy it was at first, until somewhere along the way the shape changed beneath my hand.

It stopped being something soft and I don’t know when it became something angry.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.” The words come out meaner than I intend.

“I know.”

I’m not insane. I’m not insane. It was an accident.

I try to wrap the gauze around my finger again, but my hands refuse to cooperate, they shake with rage and guilt and the small packet slips between my fingers.

A breath of frustration slips out and for a moment, he looks at me with soft eyes, then he stands. He walks toward me slowly, giving me enough time to tell him not to but I don’t until he reaches me and stops. “May I?” He asks, eyes on mine.

The question catches me off guard, but I nod, following every move he makes. He takes the bandage from my hand and wraps it carefully around my finger.

“You’re angry.”

I look back at him, and see that his gaze is still on me.

“I didn’t know her,” I reply softly as if trying to understand that rage myself.

His thumb presses the edge of the bandage into place before he lets go and the distance between us returns as his warmth leaves me. “No? Why are you angry, then?”

Why am I ?

Because she didn’t deserve that, and a dark feeling rose inside me.