(Michelle's POV)
Steven and I walked toward Microeconomics together.
Not touching.
Not hiding.
Just… side by side.
And for the first time since Friday's disaster, I didn't feel like my lungs were made of shattered glass.
The rumors still existed.
The stares still existed.
The whispers still hummed behind my back like mosquitoes on caffeine.
But something had shifted.
I wasn't drowning anymore.
Not after this morning.
Not after his steady presence.
Not after saying out loud — to him and to myself — the truth I had been carrying with a quiet, terrified reverence:
I like you, Steven Sy,
and I'm done apologizing for it.
And somehow, that simple honesty felt like slipping out of chains I hadn't realized I'd been wearing.
—
(Entering Microeconomics)
The moment we stepped into the room, every head turned.
Not subtly.
Not discretely.
Full swivel.
Full stare.
Full dramatic gasp.
I was half-convinced someone would whip out popcorn.
