THE PEN THAT CUT DEEPER

NB: This story contains themes of grief from the loss of a loved one

Mr. Robert's pen is mightier than a sword. It holds the terrifying power to make or break my future.

A sword can't do any of that.

In the near future, I might be crying on my bed, questioning my entire existence. Then I'll tell myself I'll do better. I'll study harder.

But Mr. Robert's pen could definitely cut deeper than a sword.

It could split a cosmic black hole into two halves.

It could break me into pieces.

The classroom is quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind of quiet where everyone is pretending not to care while secretly counting the seconds until their fate is revealed.

Mr. Robert walks between the rows of desks, holding the chemistry papers like they are classified government documents.

I watch the stack in his hands.

Twenty-seven pieces of paper.

Twenty-seven possible disasters.

Twenty-seven students about to discover whether they are future scientists or future motivational speakers who tell people they failed chemistry to make their audience feel better.

"Congratulations to those who did well," Mr. Robert says.

Nobody smiles.

Because teachers always say that before delivering emotional damage.

He stops beside my desk.

The paper lands on my desk face down.

I stare at it.

It looks so clinically white except for the tiny heart I drew in the corner on the back of the paper. Mr. Robert didn't notice, as usual.

I don't turn it over.

Not yet.

For a few seconds, I convince myself that if I don't look, the number doesn't exist.

That is how life works, apparently.

If you ignore something long enough, maybe it gets tired and disappears.

It doesn't.

I finally flip the paper.

92%.

I blink.

Then I blink again.

Because surely my eyes have betrayed me.

I have to text Amala. I know she's sitting in the same classroom as me, just across from me.

I can't wait to see the expression on my best friend's face—

I pause.

Then it dawns on me.

Amala is not sitting across from me.

Her seat is empty.

Amala is gone.

Forever.

That makes twenty-six students instead.

I look back down at my paper.

A 92 is not a disaster.

A 92 is the kind of grade people celebrate.

A 92 is the kind of grade that makes parents say, "See? You were worrying for nothing."

But I don't smile.

I don't feel relief.

I just stare at the number.

Because the last person who would have celebrated this with me is not here.

Amala would have taken the paper from my hands before I even finished reading it.

"Ninety-two?" she would have screamed. "And you were acting like you were going to fail?"

Then she would have reminded me that she got an 87 and somehow still believed she was the smartest person in the room.

She had a talent for being positive.

She was the only person who might have actually enjoyed freshman year.

As sentimental as this may sound, my best friend made life full.

It has been eight months since Amala died.

Eight months since the world continued spinning like it didn't know it had lost someone.

○○○

After school, I go home and take the paper out of my bag.

I put it back in

Then I take it out.

Then I put it back in.

Then I take it out again.

It becomes a ridiculous cycle.

A week later, I get another chemistry test. My mind is on its own autopilot. Doing the test feels kind of satisfying. And a little ironic.

I hate tests.

But now I hate the feeling of loss more.

I should be excited.

I should feel proud.

Instead, I sit there staring at my answers, wondering why I am even trying.

Because Amala isn't here.

Because she will never know that I finally understand chemical bonding.

Because I am collecting achievements she will never hear about.

That thought stays with me until Mr. Robert returns the papers.

Another good grade.

94%.

I almost laugh.

Because it feels impossible.

It's almost like I'm wearing the lucky socks from Everybody Hates Chris, but in a premium version.

The pen that I'm terrified of doesn't destroy me.

It doesn't cut me into pieces.

It does something worse.

It proves that I'm still here.

That on paper, I'm not as broken as I feel.

And somehow, that hurts.

For months, I thought moving forward meant leaving Amala behind.

But why does every good grade feel like a betrayal?

I'm not even studying that hard, so why do I keep topping the class?

Does Mr. Robert feel sorry for me?

That must be it.

He's trying to grade me in a way that feels less overwhelming after eight months of withheld grief.

That afternoon, I decide to have a word with him.

I inhale.

Then exhale as I give the door a whisper of a knock.

My throat feels dry, and I feel a little stupid.

But it's too late to go back now.

He's already called me to come in.

I walk in tentatively, and when I finally lift my eyes to him, he smiles.

He smiles.

I've never seen Mr. Robert smile before.

"Leoni, I was expecting you."

"You were?" I ask, my voice so small I can barely hear it myself.

"Yes. And I must say I'm quite impressed with your performance these past weeks. Amala must have rubbed off on you," he says with a small smile.

Amala's name still hurts, apparently, because he immediately apologizes when I don't laugh at his joke.

I should've laughed.

It's been eight months already.

"Actually, I, um... I wasn't sure why I got these grades. I did the exam the same way I've always done it, and suddenly I make enough sense for you to grade me this high?"

He looks at me like he sees something I don't.

"Hand those over."

He gestures to the sheets in my hand — both papers from today and last week's test.

As he rearranges both papers, I spot the mini-heart I drew in the corner of the paper, and it involuntarily draws a smile to my face.

It was our good luck tradition.

Now it's my tribute to her, I guess.

Mr. Robert's face changes.

He must have realized something.

I wait for him to tell me that he accidentally gave me marks I didn't deserve.

"Wait a minute..."

He starts.

Then stops.

My heart feels heavy.

I'm about to fail like I wanted, but why does that hurt too?

"Where did you get this?" he asks instead, his voice laced with confusion as he hands the paper over to me.

At this moment, the world seems to come to a halt.

I check the paper anxiously,

Amala — Laura Sharpel.

Her paper must have unknowingly mixed with mine around the time I kept taking out the chemistry test paper at home.

The ridiculous cycle.

25th April

I gasp, it's the same day and month as last week's test.

I check again.

25th April 2025.

Last year.

92%.

Same mark.

I turn it over to see if the heart is also there.

It's still there.

Her paper looks exactly like mine.

The kind of adrenaline rushing through my body has probably paused the rest of my nerve impulses.

I feel unconscious to everything that isn't the paper in my hands.

This must mean something, right?

But I look back up at Mr. Robert and grin emotionlessly.

I think I see him wince a little at my expression.

I stop smiling.

"My bad. I must have mixed up Amala's papers with mine."

A tear rolls freely down my cheek.

This paper hurts too much.

The score on it hurts even more.

Mr. Robert, on the other hand, looks like he's deep in thought.

"Leoni, if you have Amala's old notebooks, I want you to bring them with you tomorrow at the same time."

I'm confused.

Another tear falls.

"Did she tell you something before she died?"

I ask, hoping I'm right.

But all I've done so far is be wrong about everything.

Except for my exam answers.

Strange.

"No. But Amala used to be my favourite student. She used to talk to me a lot because she liked my subject. I've realized something, and I want you to understand it tomorrow as much as I understand it right now."

I blink through my wet lashes.

He nods approvingly.

"It's okay to cry, Leoni. You've held it in long enough."

I don't burst out crying.

I'm crying just fine already.

But for the first time, I feel relief.

Mr. Robert hasn't said anything yet. Neither does he have any clue to making. her death make sense.

It's also very realistic that she didn't leave any hidden messages like in cliché movies.

Because Amala herself didn't know she was going to die that night in the hospital.

Nobody expects to die from a cold.

Maybe my relief is from feeling relief knowing that I'll be okay despite the pain.

○○○

"So if you watch carefully, Leoni... your brain picked up Amala's calculation methods after all. As she kept tutoring you, as you kept watching her work, your brain stored it like muscle memory. You unconsciously use it.

Let's just say, you solve chemistry tests as a coping mechanism for your loss."

He closes Amala's notebook.

"I always say, we haven't unlocked every part of our brain yet. As we evolve we'll get there. But you, Leoni Jordan already have ads to the future human brain."

"Wow, that's.... that's a lot of relief actually. And that's so cool. I think I'm like..." I pretend to think. He waits intently.

"Einstein now." I finish fancifully

We both laugh.

<A Few Months Later>

My name is Leoni Jordan. In the present, I'm crying on my bed questioning my entire existence.

I'm telling myself I'll do just fine.

Because I just solved chemistry with my eyes closed. No pen. No paper. Just my cognition.

I can't wait to tell Tyron.

Update: It turns out Mr. Robert has a son. A very attractive son.

Tyron Robert, his full name obviously. He transferred to my school three months ago.

Also, Mr. Robert has found out that he's infact, occupationally mobile and has decided to be a therapist for a start.

I know being a therapist will suit him better.

I'm going to be fine. Amala has given me the best gift ever;

The Pen That Cut Deeper.

It cut deeper so I could see dimensions of myself I never knew existed.