Sky avoided mirrors.
Not just in bathrooms or changing rooms—but the ones in her mind. The ones where voices echoed old names. The ones where she tried to stitch herself together and still came undone.
But when Ayana said her name, something in her shifted. Not much. Just enough to make her pause at her dorm mirror the next morning, toothbrush in hand, breath fogging the glass.
"Sky," she whispered, as if saying it aloud could carve it deeper into her bones.
Her reflection didn't answer, but for a fleeting second, she didn't flinch at the sight of her own eyes.
That was new.
The campus buzzed with its usual chaos. Girls in oversized sweaters clung to iced coffee. Boys laughed too loudly near the gym. Music leaked from headphones. Deadlines hung in the air like a quiet panic.
Sky walked between it all—half present, half ghost.
As she neared the lecture hall, her stomach tightened. She wasn't late, but she wasn't early either. She didn't want to be early. That might mean more time near Ayana. More chances to be noticed again.
But part of her wanted to be noticed.
And that was terrifying.
She slipped into her seat, same row, same position, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. Her hair—still short, still not how she wanted it—was hidden beneath a knit cap. One strand fell across her cheek. She didn't fix it.
Ayana entered the room exactly one minute before the hour. Her presence shifted the energy immediately. Calm. Collected. Alive in a way that didn't demand attention but commanded it anyway.
Sky's heart thudded just once.
Ayana didn't look at her. Not yet.
She began her lecture—talking about symbolism in post-war African literature, about silence as protest, about how absence can speak louder than presence.
Sky listened harder than anyone else.
At the end of the hour, students shuffled their papers and stretched, whispering about assignments and weekend plans. Sky packed slowly, trying not to seem like she was lingering.
She failed.
Ayana's voice came again, warm and even. "Sky, can I speak to you for a moment?"
Several heads turned.
Sky's throat went dry. She nodded and stayed seated as the others filed out.
When the room was nearly empty, Ayana sat on the edge of the desk nearest her and folded her arms.
"You seem... different today," she said.
Sky glanced at her hands. "I do?"
"You're quieter than usual."
Sky almost laughed. "I didn't think that was possible."
Ayana smiled. "It's not a bad thing. I was just wondering how you were."
Sky hesitated. "I'm fine."
A beat.
"I'm... trying."
Ayana's smile softened. "Trying is a good word. Honest."
Sky chewed her lower lip, weighing her next words. "Yesterday, you said you liked my silence."
"I did. I do."
"But I've always been told it's a flaw. That being quiet means something's wrong."
Ayana looked thoughtful. "Maybe it does. But maybe it also means you're listening. Feeling. Processing. That's not a weakness."
Sky didn't know how to respond to that. So instead, she asked, "Do you remember everyone's name?"
"No. But I remembered yours."
"Why?"
Ayana hesitated. Then: "Because you carry something. I don't know what yet. But I can feel it."
That sentence cracked something in Sky.
"I don't know how to carry it," she said quietly. "Some days, I want to leave it all behind. Just disappear."
"You don't have to carry it alone."
Sky looked at her, really looked at her. "Why do you care?"
Ayana's reply was simple. "Because no one should feel invisible in a room full of people."
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Ayana added, "Would you like to come by my office sometime? You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. Just... space, if you need it."
Sky nodded slowly. "Okay."
Later that evening, Sky stood outside Ayana's office, hesitating with her fist raised just short of the door.
This was stupid.
She didn't belong here.
But something in her remembered the way Ayana had said her name—like a promise instead of a label.
She knocked.
"Come in," came the soft reply.
Sky stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Ayana's office was warm. Not just in temperature, but in feel. Plants lined the windowsill. Books spilled from shelves in untidy stacks. A painting of the ocean hung behind her desk. It looked like movement frozen in time.
"Hey," Ayana said gently. "Wasn't sure if you'd come."
Sky shifted on her feet. "Neither was I."
Ayana gestured to the small couch in the corner. "Sit wherever you're comfortable."
Sky sat.
"So," Ayana began, "no pressure to talk about anything personal. I meant it—this can be your space."
Sky nodded, unsure how to start.
After a pause, she said, "You know I'm trans, right?"
The words felt like glass in her throat.
Ayana met her eyes without flinching. "Yes."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"No," Ayana said, firmly.
Sky exhaled, slow and long.
"I didn't expect you to say that so easily," she admitted.
"I didn't think it needed hesitation."
Sky didn't respond for a long time.
Then she asked, "Did you ever feel like you were born in the wrong story?"
Ayana leaned back, thinking. "I think I was born into a story someone else wrote. It took me years to start rewriting the pages."
Sky nodded, eyes wet. "I want to write mine. But I'm scared."
"That's fair. Stories take courage. And time."
Sky glanced around the room again. "You don't have to help me."
"I know," Ayana said. "But I want to."
That stunned Sky into silence. Not the uncomfortable kind—but the kind that felt safe. She looked down at her lap.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not making me explain."
Ayana smiled. "Sometimes being seen is enough."
When Sky left that night, the sky was cracked open with stars.
She walked slower than usual, as if afraid the quiet would end too soon. But it followed her all the way back to her dorm, gentle and patient.
That night, in her journal, she wrote:
"I was Sky today. Not a shadow. Not a secret. Just... Sky."
And for the first time in years, she didn't cry herself to sleep.