The White

In the vibrant, ever-glowing metropolis of MongKokia—a city stitched together with midnight glass and rivers of neon, alive with alleys scented with jasmine and spice—Camila moved as a living mystery. Her pallor shimmered in a way that sunlight rarely touched; her blue eyes held secrets colder than the mountain melt. She glided through crowds of burnished gold, deep ebonies, olive greens, luscious browns, her air almost too silent and always apart. MongKokia buzzed with the hum of countless dialects rooted in distant places, but none rang lonelier than Camila's voice's sharp, foreign cadence.

At St. Basilian's Academy, colour blazed everywhere—marigold and walnut banners flared above a mosaic of faces in every shade of life. Camila's pale skin wasn't rare; it whispered old stories that were best left in shadow. Groups parted ways in synchronised patterns—midnight gathered beside coal, caramel with bronze, olive with honey. Rolo, whose obsidian coat gleamed and whose laughter rolled like bells, was always found with Popo—ebony, sharp-eyed, ready to pounce. Jaya, caramel-bright, and Opal, honey-gold and sleek, flicked Camila brief, uneasy looks.

Occasionally, whispers sliced the air:

"She sticks out. Like snow on soot."

"White doesn't belong here—unless the world's turned winter white."

"What's wrong with her, anyway? Always quiet, always watching."

A little further off, a voice muttered amid a gossip knot, "I don't understand."

Camila's difference went beyond just her hue. When voices merged in a clash of argument or laughter, Camila sometimes responded in an ancient language—Latin—her words as crisp as frost, tumbling out as if sung by ancestors long gone. To her, Latin was a precious birthright, a relic handcarried through centuries by others like her. St. Basilian's found it bizarre, even rude. Popo mimicked her syllables to get a laugh. Noor wrinkled her nose and whispered, "Sounds like she's speaking to ghosts." Opal smirked, "Nonsense words—maybe she's cracked." Gossip spilt: "Who does she think she is? Talking in riddles!" Once again, someone offered the chorus: "I don't understand."

English flowed everywhere across campus: in lessons, in cafeteria banter, on stage and in playground brawls. MongKokia's glue was a patchwork tongue that every student could follow. The others clung proudly to their ancestral tongues—Swahili, Hindi, Chinese, Arabic, Yoruba—but switched to English for common ground. Camila's Latin, by contrast, fluttered on the margins, a thread left dangling from the tapestry. It drew laughter, suspicion, or scorn. The cruelty wasn't subtle: imitation became mockery, her heritage twisted into a performance for jeering eyes. No one wanted Latin. Fewer still desired the pale mark of her skin.

Some joked that her voice was high or her limbs too graceful to be normal. Shola, lounging in a patch of sun, once mused, "She moves like she's waiting to chase something nobody else can see." Noor snorted, "She probably just wants to slip away, like a shadow." Gentle oddness seemed to cling to Camila: she preferred the hush of the library, sliding between shelves so quietly that even librarians would sometimes jump, startled. At lunch, she unfurled with an elegance almost too neat for these bustling corridors—sometimes drawn to sunbeams cast through windows or a warm patch by the radiator.

After merciless jeers and a spray of laughter over her "ghost words," Camila darted away one stormy afternoon. She tucked herself into the maroon heart of the library, sinking among velvet cushions and the forest scent of old paper. There, in trembling hands, she found an ancient, gold-leafed book. Its battered cover featured a veiled figure, white amid a painted tempest.

The book was a relic of MongKokia's tangled past. It spun a legend of arrivals and clashes: white wanderers, pale as new snow, driven by hunger for black diamonds and oil, meeting a city painted by crowds in ebon, chestnut, gold, and rust. The newcomers brought cunning and language: Latin, crafted in the distant cold, woven intricately by white paws and minds. They clashed and conquered, then vanished, leaving traces only in relic words and uncertain hearts. Scenes of fiery battle and broken hope flickered in Camila's mind. She wondered: Is her language simply a splinter of conquest and sorrow? Did her difference have to mean loneliness?

Rain lashed the glass as her thoughts drifted. Was Latin merely a scar from the old world? Was her white skin a relic of heartbreak or proof of tenacity? It seemed her pain—being mocked for her tongue and her body—was a wound too ancient and tangled for apologies.

Then she heard a snatch of voices nearby—Opal and Jaya peeking past a velvet curtain, their eyes sharp and curious. "Researching your ancestors' bad habits, Camila?" Opal purred, words edged with both mockery and intrigue. "Gonna teach us ghost chants or just dance alone?" Jaya stood arms-crossed, a flicker of sympathy wrestling with suspicion. "Or just mumbling to yourself again?"

Camila steadied herself, her pale fingers pressed to the old book's battered spine. "These stories… they warn us. We're not chained to what came before. My skin and my language— I didn't choose them. They taught me what fear can do, how it changes hearts. Maybe we can choose better."

Jaya's eyes softened. "Hurt runs deep everywhere," she said, almost gently. "But sometimes, bridges start when someone leaves their safe spot first. Who's to say your old words don't belong here, too, if you want to tell a new story?"

Warmth fluttered in Camila's chest—a hope for forgiveness, if not forgetting.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered. Rolo and Popo bounded in, trailed by classmates in every colour. "What are you hiding from? The world, or your bonkers tongue?" Popo called, and giggles followed. Noor's frown deepened. "What's the use of words nobody gets?" Once more, another voice echoed: "I don't understand."

Camila straightened. "If we measure by wounds, we'll never heal. Outcasts today might help all of us last tomorrow. Shrinking to only what's common makes the world smaller. Even old languages could have a tomorrow."

Rolo cocked his head. "So you want us to pity you, or chant your strange words instead?"

Camila let out a gentle, wry laugh. "No pity. No mimicking. Just a chance to belong, as more than markings or sound. Every lone voice is just looking to join the song."

The hush that followed felt almost alive, as though the shelves and velvet were listening. Camila glimpsed a shift—a hunger for belonging, shared in each wary glance.

As moons and seasons wheeled, old routines softened. Camila quietly built bridges: lunches in unlikely company under the old orange blossom tree; snippets of Latin slipped into handmade winter cards; silent acts of kindness—mending a sleeve, returning lost pens, tucking kind words on bookmarks in hidden corners. Sometimes, when the gym was empty, her humming would echo odd cadences down the long corridors, and classmates would pause—not always for sense, but for the melody itself. Shola smiled more; Noor sometimes lingered a few heartbeats longer than before.

Opal, once cold, began folding teal and gold origami cranes and tucking them into Camila's locker, sometimes scrawling awkward Latin riddles. Rolo and Popo, less prickly, even walked home with her, testing out words in a clumsy new tongue. Where once eyes averted, now they hesitated, softened.

Soon, the Lantern Gala was upon them—a festival to honour every shade and story of MongKokia. The Lantern Bearer, chosen by secret ballot, would be the one to lead them. Lanterns flickered in amber and moonlight, and the votes scattered beneath the glowing sky. Then the announcement: Camila.

Startled applause filled the buzzing night as Camila took the golden lantern in her trembling hands. No longer hidden or jeered, her forgotten language hummed softly on her lips. The others watched, drawn closer—not for the words but for the message: that even what's lost can become home again.

After the revelries, Camila lingered in the quiet library—the old book open to its last painted page. Once, only the lone white figure had been surrounded by adversaries. Now, a circle gathered: obsidian, tawny, russet, golden, and brown—not enemies but companions changed by understanding.

Moonlight brushed the cushions; Camila blinked as the illustrations shifted and danced. The veiled figure—herself—seemed to shrink, white fur shimmering under silver light, nestled within a ring of gleaming pelts: black as midnight, tawny as sand, rich brown, russet red, all manner of stripes and spots. In a beat of wonder, you realised that Camila and all her peers had never been people, but extraordinary cats—each one vivid on MongKokia's wild tapestry.

And, white cats were always hated by cats of other colours because they were perceived as less dominant and less agile. Throughout MongKokia and beyond, the pale are visible in dusk and sun alike—easier targets for hunters, easy to blame, and more isolated because white rarely hides well except against snow. Superstitions label them unlucky, their health sometimes frailer, their bodies more sensitive to the sun and the world’s sharpness. The bold patterns of others draw admiration, leaving white overlooked. Fragility becomes a mark, difference becomes suspect, and the white are last to be defended in the wild shuffle of fur and claws.

However, Camila's story—of exile for colour and voice—was the secret kinship of all outsiders, in every skin and fur. In the end, it was the loneliest who bore the lantern best, keeping the flame alive so everyone could find their belongings.