(Funmi's POV)
Funmi noticed the change in Lizzy before anyone else did.
It was in the way Lizzy hummed softly while packing her bag. In the way she lingered by windows, sketchbook pressed to her chest like a secret she wasn't ready to share with the world. Healing sat on her differently now less like armor, more like skin.
Funmi understood that kind of quiet progress. She'd learned that survival didn't always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it just showed up as breath, as routine, as choosing to stay.
Midterms loomed like dark clouds over campus. The library stayed crowded long past midnight, caffeine became a food group, and stress hung in the air thick enough to taste. Funmi buried herself in numbers and spreadsheets, finding comfort in the order of accounting. Numbers made sense. People didn't always.
Still, her thoughts wandered.
Lizzy had been distant in a good way growing outward instead of shrinking inward. Ben hovered at the edges, careful, steady. Funmi watched them with a mix of fondness and worry. She'd seen what hope could do when it bloomed too fast, too tender.
One afternoon, Funmi found Lizzy sitting on the steps outside the art building, sketching furiously.
"You're going to wear a hole through the page," Funmi teased, dropping beside her.
Lizzy smiled without looking up. "I'm trying to catch a feeling before it disappears."
Funmi leaned closer. The sketch showed two figures walking under streetlights, shadows long and entwined. It was gentle. Intimate.
Funmi's chest tightened. "You're really finding yourself again."
Lizzy paused, pencil hovering. "I think I'm letting myself exist without apologizing for it."
Funmi nodded slowly. "That's not easy."
"No," Lizzy said. "But it's necessary."
That night, Funmi stayed up later than she should have, staring at her laptop without seeing the numbers anymore. Her phone buzzed a message from her mother back home. Just checking in. Asking if school was going well. Reminding her to be strong.
Funmi exhaled. Strength. Everyone wanted strength. No one ever asked how heavy it was to carry.
She thought about her own silences the way she swallowed exhaustion, the way she became the dependable one by default. Being the bridge. The fixer. The listener.
Who listened to her?
The question startled her.
The next day, Ben caught up to her outside the cafeteria. "Hey do you have a minute?"
Funmi raised an eyebrow. "That depends. Are you about to ask me something serious?"
He laughed nervously. "I want to do right by Lizzy. I don't want to rush her. I just… I don't want to disappear either."
Funmi studied him carefully. "Then don't disappear. Just don't demand space she hasn't offered."
He nodded. "Thank you."
As he walked away, Funmi felt something settle inside her not relief, but clarity. Loving people didn't mean losing yourself. It meant choosing honesty, even when it was uncomfortable.
That evening, Funmi met Lizzy at their usual spot, sharing fries and silence.
"You're allowed to grow," Funmi said suddenly. "But don't forget we're growing too. Together."
Lizzy reached for her hand. "I won't."
As the campus lights flickered on one by one, Funmi realized something important.
Healing wasn't just about starting again.
It was about learning what and who you were willing to carry forward.