Sky was not used to people asking her how she was and actually meaning it.
Most questions were polite noise—passing exchanges in grocery stores, corridors, elevators. No one expected an honest answer. But Ayana had meant it. Every word. Every pause. Every glance.
And that terrified Sky more than being ignored.
It was easier to disappear than be seen. Yet somehow, she kept returning to Ayana's office like it was a shoreline she couldn't resist. And Ayana never asked too much. Never pushed. Just made space, again and again.
That morning, Sky sat cross-legged on the little couch, a mug of warm lemon tea in her hands. Ayana was at her desk, flipping through a stack of marked essays. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was a comfort.
"Your thoughts on Achebe were spot on," Ayana said without looking up. "Most students miss the internal war. They only see the colonial conflict."
Sky blinked. "I didn't think you read it yet."
"I always read the ones that breathe," Ayana said.
Sky wasn't sure what that meant, but her chest warmed.
She looked at the mug in her hands. "I never liked my writing."
"Then maybe it's time you reread it as the person you are now," Ayana said softly.
Sky looked up. "Do you really believe people can start over?"
Ayana raised her eyes, locking with hers. "Yes. Every single day."
Sky swallowed hard. "That's... hopeful."
Ayana smiled. "It's honest."
The spell was broken by a soft knock on the door.
Ayana turned slightly. "Come in."
A tall student stepped in—sharp jawline, faded denim jacket, lazy smile. His presence was casual but confident, the kind that filled a room without effort.
"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt," he said, glancing at Sky, then at Ayana.
Ayana gestured to a stack of books on the filing cabinet. "Kairo, your research packet is ready."
"Perfect." He crossed the room and picked it up, flipping through the first few pages. "You really don't sleep, do you?"
Ayana laughed. "Sleep is a privilege."
Then Kairo turned to Sky, curiosity in his eyes.
"I haven't seen you around before. I'm Kairo."
Sky shifted on the couch. "Sky."
He extended a hand, and for a moment, Sky hesitated. But she shook it—lightly, quickly.
His handshake was firm but not overbearing.
"Nice to meet you," he said with a genuine smile. "Ayana's favorite, huh?"
Sky looked up, startled. "What?"
Ayana raised a brow. "Don't start rumors."
"I'm just saying." He smirked. "You don't let many people in here."
Sky's stomach twisted.
Kairo turned toward the door. "See you next week."
When he left, the door clicked shut a little too loud.
Ayana returned to her desk. "Ignore him."
Sky stared at the tea in her hands. "Do people talk?"
Ayana sighed. "People always talk. It doesn't mean they're right."
Sky wasn't convinced.
She stood, moving toward the door. "I should go."
"Sky—" Ayana started, but Sky was already pulling her hoodie up.
"I'm just tired. That's all."
Ayana didn't press. "Okay. I'll see you Tuesday?"
Sky nodded without meeting her eyes.
She left without another word.
Outside, the wind cut through her like glass.
Sky walked fast, head down, heart thudding. She didn't know why Kairo's comment had shaken her. Maybe it was how casually he'd said it. Like it was obvious. Like everyone would see it eventually.
She had been invisible for so long. And now she was starting to glow—and the light made her nervous.
Back in her dorm, she sat at the edge of her bed, gripping her journal. The pages felt heavy, like they were waiting for her to confess something she hadn't named yet.
She opened to a blank page and wrote:
"I don't know what this is.
I don't know what she sees in me.
But when she looks at me, I don't hate myself.
And maybe that's the scariest part."
Days passed. Campus moved on, indifferent to the storm brewing in Sky's chest.
Ayana didn't message her. Didn't call. Didn't follow up.
And for some reason, that hurt more than she expected.
By Thursday, Sky was restless. She skipped two classes. She walked aimlessly for hours, avoiding places where she might see her. Avoiding herself.
She ended up in the library's forgotten corner—a quiet alcove with stained glass windows and mismatched chairs. She sank into a worn seat and stared out the window.
The sky outside was a heavy gray. A storm building but refusing to fall.
Much like her.
A voice broke her thoughts.
"I thought I'd find you here."
She turned.
Kairo stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression careful.
Sky tensed. "Why?"
"You look like someone who disappears," he said, then added, "I do too, sometimes."
She didn't reply.
He leaned against the wall, not too close. "Sorry if I made things weird the other day. I joke too much when I'm uncomfortable."
"Why were you uncomfortable?" Sky asked, genuinely curious.
"Because I could tell Ayana cares about you," he said, shrugging. "And I guess... I envied it."
Sky's throat tightened. "I don't think she cares like that."
"Maybe not yet," Kairo said. "But something's there."
Sky looked away. "It's complicated."
He nodded. "Isn't everything?"
A silence settled between them. Not cold. Not warm. Just real.
Then he said, "You don't have to explain who you are to me. I just thought you looked like you needed to not be alone."
That sentence disarmed her.
She whispered, "Thank you."
Kairo nodded once. "Anytime."
That night, Ayana stood on her balcony, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Sky's contact.
She hadn't called. She wasn't sure if she should.
She was Sky's professor. Her elder. Her... what, exactly?
Ayana wasn't blind. She saw what was happening. The way Sky softened in her presence. The way Ayana herself felt gentler, more present, more alive when Sky spoke—even in fragments.
But it was dangerous.
Not because of the rules. Because of the vulnerability. The weight of what Sky had trusted her with. The fragility of her truth. The mirror it held up to Ayana's own past—when she had once trusted the wrong person and paid dearly for it.
Ayana put the phone down.
She would wait.
Let Sky come to her.
But Sky didn't come.
Not for three days.
When she finally did, it wasn't to the office.
It was to Ayana's apartment.
She stood on the front step, trembling, clutching her coat.
Ayana opened the door, stunned. "Sky?"
"I'm sorry," Sky said. "I shouldn't be here. But I didn't know where else to go."
Ayana's voice softened. "Come in."
Sky stepped inside. The apartment smelled like ginger and warm tea. Books were stacked on the table. A jazz record hummed low in the background.
She stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed.
"I just... I felt like I broke something," she whispered.
"You didn't," Ayana said, closing the door gently. "You ran."
Sky looked down. "I do that a lot."
Ayana walked over slowly. "But you came back."
Sky's eyes shimmered. "Why does that feel like a sin?"
Ayana reached for her hand—hesitantly, gently.
"Because sometimes love starts in the places we were taught to fear," she said.
Sky's breath caught.
They stood there, inches apart.
No confessions.
No kisses.
Just a touch.
Just a beginning.