When the incident of me pushing Phoebe into the water spread through the school, Stephen stopped shielding me as he had before.
For the first time, I truly felt the unfiltered malice of my peers.
Previously, out of respect for Stephen, my classmates had refrained from openly mentioning my disability. Now, I wasn't even referred to by my name—everyone simply called me "the mute."
I gestured frantically, trying to convey that I had a name—Raelynn.
All it did, though, was provoke a wave of laughter.
"Mute, huh? What good could her name do? She couldn't even pronounce it. How ironic!"
"Exactly! Bet she pushed Phoebe because she's jealous and wants Stephen all to herself. Talk about a bumpkin coveting what wasn't theirs."
I wanted to scream, "No, it wasn't like that!"
My parents gave me this name. To me, it was the most beautiful name in the world.
I wasn't always mute. I used to speak—until my parents passed away in a car accident when I was three. After that, my voice disappeared.
Then, when my grandmother died, I was left utterly alone. But those moments with my family were the happiest of my life.
None of this mattered, though. When people harbored prejudice, every word one said was dismissed as an insincere excuse.
At school, my textbooks would mysteriously end up in the restroom, and my desk would often be left filthy with unidentified stains.
Although these petty acts of cruelty seemed minor on the surface, they felt like thorny vines slowly wrapping around me—first scraping my skin, then digging into my flesh.
At first, the pain was sharp and sudden. Over time, it became a persistent, unbearable ache.
For the first time, I gathered the courage to ask Stephen for help.
Since the incident, I had been avoiding him, driven by a stubborn determination to repay him through academic success. Once I could stand on my own, I planned to sever all ties.
When I stood before Stephen that day, he towered over me with a smirk that wasn't quite friendly.
"You were the one at fault and tried giving me the silent treatment, huh? What, trying to play hard to get?" he shot.
I didn't know how to respond. Truthfully, I didn't even understand what he meant.
Without waiting for a reply, Stephen still helped.
Afterward, the bullying eased considerably.
When Phoebe found out, she strolled into my classroom.
Slipping her arm around my shoulder, she flashed a dazzling smile at everyone and warned, "This is my little sister! No one is allowed to bully her, okay?"
My classmates quickly praised her kindness and generosity, but I stood stiff and frozen in place.
Phoebe lightly patted my shoulder and told me to focus on my studies before returning to her class.
As she left, I noticed my classmates' sneering expressions. I quietly returned to my desk.
My deskmate at the time slammed her book onto the desk and declared loudly, "Wow, look how nice Phoebe is. What a shame I'm stuck sitting with a conniving mute!"
I stared down at my desk, not daring to make a sound.
From then on, I was the only student in class who sat alone.
With Stephen's intervention, my classmates stopped openly bullying me, but the snide remarks never went away.
Still, I told myself it was an improvement. At least my notebooks no longer ended up in the restroom. I could finally focus on my studies again.
