Frank grumbled under his breath as he picked a book off the shelf. Jacob's Dictionary of Latin phrases? Check. An intermediate guide to the Latin Language? Check. Latin for Dummies?

Check, check, frickin check.

God, he might as well sweep the whole shelf off into a basket, so long as they were all Latin books.

Some didn't understand his obsession with the dead language. That was fine; he didn't either.

But it was the day his eight year old self had been told something by a bored, dejected stepfather Andrew, that his ears had pricked upwards.

That the most beautiful words came from dead men.

It had been a love-hate affair with it ever since.

At times when his despair hit him hardest, he could retreat into dead mens' minds and pretend he was among them.

Having escaped wholly from the land of the living.

Everyone dies someday, might as well be early to the scene, in thought if not body.

It frustrated him how he came into this world without a choice, how he would leave it without a choice, and if things like resurrection or Nirvana were real, he would be brought back without a choice either.

He hoped he wasn't.

Staying dead, forgotten, dusty, sounded a lot better than repetitive reincarnation, or some sort of reckoning for his minutest unconscious deed.

No, staying dead definitely had its benefits.

He'd been reading so called 'holy books' lately. He'd come across a passage that said the mountains had been offered free will, but said no. Humanity, in sad contrast, seemed to have been given it generously, handed out like hot cakes to every last one of the damned species.

All free to mete out suffering on whoever they saw. What mercy.

But he was waffling. An upset, unsettled young man.

Brilliant, yes.

Brilliantly miserable.

'Vitam regit fortuna, non sapientia.' he muttered morosely to himself.

'Fortune, not wisdom, rules lives.'

He'd thought no one shared his misery.

But then he'd spotted a hijab-clad teen, who would sometimes be looking out of the window, or into the distance. When she thought no one was watching.

Her sad mint eyes looking, as if she wished the winds to whisk her away.

Then he'd known. He'd finally found a partner in his despair.

Syeda sat next to Elyka on her bed, the bright colourful room making her uncomfortable.

But not more than what she'd just learned.

Elyka had told her everything.

How Chris had been using Elyka against them. How he'd been using Jack's phone, investigating his contacts, messages, emails, everything. Befor Elyka smuggled it back again.

Strangely enough, Syeda couldn't bring herself to really care. The boy affected, could soon be on a Russian mountaintop tomorrow (seemingly number one in the list of places he persuaded himself he was safe in).

Syeda spotted a box on Elyka's bedroom floor.

On its green ribbon, was calligraphic, swirly writing.

"Cahya?" Syeda asked, eyebrow arched. Her eyes flitted to Elyka for an explanation.

Elyka's usual mousy brown eyes, lively and inquisitive, were now dull and lifeless.

Then those eyes looked up at Syeda.

"It's my real name."

'Real name?' Syeda thought, and for a moment, she questioned everything she knew about the sorry criminal.

Elyka could make questionable decisions... but an alternate identity? How long had she been spying on them? How many years, exactly?

Syeda's brow creased in silent, baffled outrage.

"It's not what you think. I didn't make up a fake name for the last three years just for you guys." She responded despondently, knees drawn up on the bed, chin resting on them.

Syeda's stony façade was rattled for just a moment. During which she realised: she'd never seen anyone so sad.

"Then how?"

Elyka looked up at Syeda, her expression one of quiet acceptance.

"I'm adopted. That box, it's the last thing I have from my real family."

She turned her gaze back at the floor. "I came here six years ago. I got bullied a lot; I had a thick accent, I barely knew English. I was called 'chinky', 'ching chang chong'. Moved from school to school every time it got too bad. Too violent. They lit my hair on fire, once."

Elyka lifted a lock of hair away from her right temple, beneath which was an old, red scar. She continued to reveal her hairline, down to her ears, usually covered by large bangs and a fringe, and Syeda could see the ugly red marks, from so long ago. Still there.

"They'll heal." Syeda found herself saying softly.

"They won't. Not in the way that matters." Elyka responded quietly.

"Why did you change your name?"

"I didn't." She breathed back, voice almost imperceptible. All the while, she was looking through the French windows, out at the lush green garden, the greenery that was Mrs. Chua's pride and joy.

"Then who- " Oh.

"My parents, when they adopted me." Elyka was silent for a moment.

"I owe everything to the Chua family. I was at a time in my life when I'd hit rock bottom. I never turned up to school, spent my time just wandering around the streets, or tailing along with no-good friends. I'd given up on life."

Elyka turned to look at Syeda, her brown eyes shining.

"They gave me a chance. They changed me. Because of their kindness, I started to reluctantly, against my own inclination, believe in life again."

The quality of her voice changed, like she was trying hard to maintain her calm, even voice. She took in a shuddering breath.

"It's like I was in a dark, deep well. They grabbed hold of my scruffy, rebellious, uncooperating arm, and pulled, pulled, pulled. They pulled me out of there. So I could finally..."

She looked up at the ceiling, at the hand-painted white roses. Her brown bangs slid, feathering her pale neck. Her cheeks were flushed pink, contrasting oddly to her stoic expression.

"So I could see the light again. A light I'd thought, for the longest time, didn't exist."

She turned to look at Syeda.

"I wasn't proud of my race, Syeda. I wasn't proud of any part of myself. I hated who I was. I wanted to be anything else. Anything, that people wouldn't hate me for. Perhaps what I really wanted was..."

She wiped the dry ends of both eyes. Just in case.

"To cease to exist."

Syeda watched the girl she'd known for years, break down layer after layer of the shrouds and mystery that had continually enveloped her.

Laying herself bare.

Syeda watched, stunned.

The Norwegian girl realised something that struck her in her core. She was winded, suddenly.

She had been living in, and growing in, a coccoon.

A tight, closeted, private coccoon. A place where she'd wallowed in her own misery, her own despair.

Never thinking that others did the same.

Never thinking that someone suffered more.

Suddenly, a whole string of realisations came to her. Jolted her.

Jack suffered.

Frank suffered.

Elyka suffered.

She suffered.

All wealthy enough, privileged enough teens in one of the richest countries in the world.

All suffering.

But Elyka's story wasn't finished.

"I tell everyone I'm Filipino. Pffft, I'm not. Any real Filipino can tell."

"I'm actually Indonesian. But to own it, I have to admit I'm adopted. And then the questions... the pity... I can't bear it. I just want to be normal. Finally."

"So..." Syeda read between the lines. "Your real name is Cahya Wikoto."

"Yes. You know..." Elyka said musingly. "I had an aunt. She bought the box for me. But she..." Elyka looked back at the floor again.

"She's been in a drug rehabilitation centre for the last five years." She whispered softly.

"I visit her every Saturday. Every times they release her, she can't stay clean for long."

Elyka dug out a photo frame from the box.

"This is us, together."

The picture showed an older woman with a happier, carefree Elyka.

"Before my light disappeared, she was it." Elyka whispered sadly.

"She's such an incredible woman, with a horrible past. She survived abuse, poverty, homelessness, but still got food on the table for both of us, for so long. I guess after a while, it just broke her." Her building up tears were threatening to cross over her lower eyelid.

"You know Syeda, that I like my philosophy?" Elyka ruminated, not completely recovered. "My confused mind used to find contentment in delightfully confusing things. I would always look for more complex, then more complex ideas. But one thing always got me."

"René Descartes," She chuckled, "Said, "I think, therefore I am." So I thought, 'If I think I'm the world's lowliest, trashiest scum, I would become it. And so I did. But he also said, "I think, therefore you are." So if I thought everyone else was an viler form of trash, then so they became. To me."

Her tear-filled eyes shone as they crinkled, and she sniffed, smiling. "I hated myself. And I hated everyone, too. All because I couldn't deal with my suffering, the bad hand that fate had dealt me, any other way."

"But at Fairville Academy, I met you guys. Good guys, good people. Frank has been very kind to me these past fast few years, even though he hides his own sorrows behind his wry smiles." She sighed, wistfully.

"He's struggling a lot, you know; you should ask him how he is, Syeda. He doesn't take me seriously, but he would you.

Anyway, after meeting you guys, fitting in, I was finally... happy."

Elyka stood up, walking to window.

"That's why I sold out Chris to you. I might have to move schools again because of him, if he decides to be true on his word, and take his revenge. But it's worth it."

Elyka looked over her shoulder, wolfish grin visible.

"Never betray your friends, right ?"

Syeda cleared her throat.

"Firstly, I'm countering what you said just earlier. What other people think of us doesn't make us, and what we think of others doesn't make them. Descartes got that wrong. The real answer is..."

Syeda got up and walked to the window too, shoulder to shoulder with her classmate.

"It's what Allah thinks of us that makes us." She countered quietly.

"God?" Elyka asked, eyebrow raised.

"In my belief, yes."

Then, Syeda did something for the first time.

She decided to recite Qur'an, in public.

She read its Surah Fatihah, or, The Opening (chapter). It was an eminent, holy prayer. She knew it was also called Ash-Shifaa', The Cure.

When read, it was a cure for ailments. After finishing the melodious recitation, Syeda blew onto her hands, and patted Elyka's shoulders, from behind.

'Ya Allah, guide her." Syeda made dua (prayer), earnestly. "Guide us all. End our Suffering. Take our pain away. Mine, and Jack's, and Frank's, and poor Elyka's. She's still haunted by a trauma she hides with her smile. Please help us. Grant us shifaa' (a cure).'

Elyka's tears, held back for so long, with so much mental strength, were now trickling down her cheek.

She hadn't cried for so long. So, so long. 'So how...?' she racked her mind for a reason.

The prayer had re-woken something primal in her.

The need to let it all out.

Then Syeda did another new thing.

She hugged Elyka.

Briefly, but solidly. Elyka pinched herself to see if she was dreaming it all.

Proud Syeda never did personal, feeling things for other people.

Had she... Had she changed since Jack had come?

Syeda was walking home, sifting through her thoughts, frown clear.

Suddenly, a figure appeared before her, having dropped elegantly down from a brick wall.

He had brown, chin-length hair, and a wide smile, and deep brown eyes.

"It's been a while... Syeda Johansson."

His smile grew sharper, playful.

"I hope you've looked after my little brother."