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odalys sits on the floor of her cozy bedroom in Barcelona, carefully folding clothes into a suitcase. A window glows with golden evening light, revealing a view of terracotta rooftops and distant mountains. Her eyes are thoughtful and a little sad. The room has a few favorite toys and books, showing her personality. She is holding a shirt against her chest, as if trying to hold on to something familiar.
In the warm glow of her room in Barcelona, Odalys folded her favorite shirt and placed it gently into a suitcase. She paused to look out the window—her city shimmered with orange rooftops and memories. Tomorrow, she would leave it all behind. A new country waited. A new language, too. She wrapped her questions tightly around her heart: Will they understand me? Will I understand them?
Inside an airplane, Odalys leans against the window, gazing out at the clouds below with wide eyes filled with wonder and worry. She wears a soft hoodie and has headphones around her neck. Outside the window, the Earth looks small—patches of green, ocean blue, and endless sky. Floating above the clouds are translucent Spanish words like “familia,” “casa,” and “te quiero,” gently drifting behind the plane like a trail of petals.
The airplane hummed like a lullaby as it soared through the sky. Odalys pressed her forehead to the window and whispered goodbye to Spain. Below, the world became smaller. Above, the clouds welcomed her like soft pillows. She imagined her words trailing behind the plane—Spanish ones floating like petals. She didn’t know what the English ones would sound like yet.
Odalys stands in a crowded American middle school hallway. Her backpack looks too big for her small frame. Students rush past her, talking in fast English, their speech shown as swirling words she can’t understand. She looks lost, clutching her backpack straps tightly, with a nervous expression. The walls are filled with lockers, and the school environment is bright but overwhelming.
Her new school was loud. The hallways buzzed with chatter Odalys couldn’t quite follow. She gripped her backpack like a shield and tried to smile, but everything felt fast—like running in a dream where your feet can’t move. A girl bumped into her and said, “Sorry!” Odalys blinked. What did that mean? She wanted to answer, but the words stayed stuck inside her.
In a busy cafeteria, Odalys sits alone at a lunch table, her tray barely touched. She looks down shyly, missing home. Then, a friendly girl with big curly hair and a bright smile, Emma, is sliding into the seat beside her. Emma leans in cheerfully, saying hi. Odalys offers a small, surprised smile. Around them, the lunchroom is lively, filled with chatter and trays of colorful food.
At lunch, Odalys sat alone, picking at her food. She missed bocadillos from home. Then, a girl with curly hair and a bright voice appeared. “Hi! I’m Emma. Can I sit here?” Odalys nodded quickly, her heart thumping. She opened her mouth and let out a tiny, nervous “Hi.” Emma grinned. Just one word. But it opened the door.
Emma and Odalys sit side by side, both laughing. Emma is pointing at her sandwich, and Odalys is trying to repeat the word while giggling. Their trays are colorful—juice boxes, sandwiches, fruit. Odalys looks relaxed for the first time, her eyes sparkling with joy. The friendship is blossoming in this playful moment.
Emma pointed to the tray in front of her. “This is a sandwich,” she said slowly, clearly. Odalys repeated, “San…witch?” They burst into giggles, the sound bouncing between them like sunlight on water. From that moment, lunch wasn’t so lonely anymore.
Odalys sits on her bed at home, writing in a notebook. Around her are floating illustrated words like “book,” “teacher,” “smile,” each glowing gently in the air. She has a small desk with English flashcards, a lamp casting warm light, and sticky notes on the wall. Her face is focused, curious, and filled with quiet determination.
Every day, Odalys gathered new words like shiny shells on a beach. Book. Teacher. Smile. She kept them in a notebook, drew little pictures to remember. Sometimes she would whisper them before bed, like bedtime spells. The words didn’t always come easily—but they came.
At school, Odalys is seated at a desk, reading a beginner-level English book with big illustrations. Her finger traces each word. Behind her, a tree grows metaphorically, each branch holding a word or phrase she has learned. A mirror in the corner shows her practicing aloud: “The sun is bright.” Her reflection looks proud and brave.
Reading in English was like climbing a tall tree. Hard at first, but the view got better the higher she went. Odalys read stories with big pictures and small sentences. She practiced in the mirror: “The sun is bright. The dog is fast. I am learning.” And she was.
In the classroom, Odalys sits with slumped shoulders, a speech bubble filled with jumbled letters above her head. Some kids are laughing in the background. Her teacher, a kind woman, kneels beside her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, offering encouragement. Light shines from the teacher’s words: “You are brave.” Odalys’s face softens with comfort.
Some days, Odalys’s mouth felt full of marbles. She would say the wrong word, or mix up the letters. Other kids sometimes laughed, and she felt small. But her teacher knelt beside her and whispered, “You are brave. Every word you try is a step forward.” Odalys wrote that down. She wanted to remember.
A close-up of Odalys’s hand writing “I like the rain.” in neat, careful handwriting in her notebook. Her face beams with quiet pride. Outside the classroom window, gentle rain is falling. The words on the page shimmer with significance. It’s a peaceful, powerful moment.
Then came the day she wrote a full sentence by herself: “I like the rain.” It was simple. But to her, it felt like building a bridge from one world to another. She smiled at the paper. I’m doing it.
In a cheerful school hallway, Emma is handing Odalys a folded note shaped like a star. Odalys opens it, revealing the message: “Come over after school?” Her eyes widen with joy. The reply she writes, “Yes. I would like to,” glows softly on the paper. Behind them, lockers are decorated with friendly doodles and names.
One afternoon, Emma passed her a note folded into a star. “Come over after school?” it said in loopy handwriting. Odalys felt the words bloom in her hands. She wrote back, careful and proud: “Yes. I would like to.”
Odalys stands at the front of her classroom holding a piece of paper. Her classmates sit watching, Emma smiling brightly in the front row. Odalys’s face is focused, slightly nervous but confident. Glowing words float around her: “I come from Spain. I speak two languages.” The room feels full of support and light.
Weeks passed. Her notebook grew full. Her voice grew louder. Then her teacher asked her to read a paragraph aloud to the class. Her hands shook as she stood, paper rustling. But her voice was steady. “I come from Spain. I speak two languages. I am learning more every day.” The classroom clapped. Emma beamed. Odalys glowed.
Odalys walks through the school hallway, surrounded by gently glowing Spanish and English words floating around her like butterflies. Her head is held high, and her smile is confident. A soft golden light surrounds her. The walls are lined with student art, and a globe spins in the background. She is walking toward a bright future, bridging two worlds.
Now, Odalys walks through the halls with words dancing around her. She speaks in two languages—one from her past, one from her present. She knows now: words are not walls. They are bridges. And she is learning to cross every one.