Sky stared at the letter for a long time.
Her fingers traced the curve of each line, memorizing Ayana's handwriting like it was scripture. She had read it twelve times since sunrise. Each word pressed deeper into her like the careful thumbprint of something sacred.
"You are gravity."
She didn't feel like gravity. She felt like a glitch—like a flickering image that kept threatening to vanish when no one was looking. And yet, Ayana saw her. Again and again. Not as a project or a problem, but as someone worth anchoring.
It terrified her.
And it thrilled her.
She got dressed slowly, choosing a black hoodie and soft gray jeans that didn't hug her too tight. She tied her hair into a loose bun, let a few strands fall deliberately, and then undid it all again because nothing felt right.
By the time she reached Ayana's apartment, her hands were clammy and her stomach felt like she'd swallowed a storm.
She didn't knock immediately.
Instead, she stood at the threshold and looked up at the apartment building, at the small balcony with wind chimes that danced every time the breeze whispered by.
She finally knocked.
One soft rap. Two seconds. Another.
The door opened.
Ayana was barefoot, wearing black leggings and a long maroon sweater, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was pulled back loosely, soft curls around her face. She didn't speak right away. Just opened the door wider and stepped aside.
Sky entered quietly.
The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, silence was a third presence in the room. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just there.
Ayana gestured to the couch. "Want tea?"
Sky nodded, suddenly unable to trust her voice.
Ayana moved into the kitchen. The clink of mugs, the hiss of boiling water, the quiet shuffle of movement. Sky sank into the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. The apartment was softly lit, gentle amber tones from warm bulbs and late morning light filtering through gauzy curtains.
Ayana returned with two mugs. She handed one to Sky, their fingers brushing.
"Lemon and honey," Ayana said.
Sky took it carefully. "Thank you."
Ayana sat across from her in the armchair, tucking one leg under herself.
Sky stared into the mug for a long time. Then she said, quietly, "Did you mean what you wrote?"
Ayana's gaze didn't waver. "Every word."
Sky nodded slowly. "I didn't know what to say back."
"You didn't have to," Ayana said. "I just needed you to know."
Sky looked up, her voice cracking slightly. "You're the first person who's ever waited for me."
Ayana's face softened. "You were worth waiting for."
Something broke open then—not loudly. Not with tears or grand emotion. Just a deep, inward shift, like a door opening inside Sky that she hadn't realized was locked.
"I was scared," she admitted.
"So was I," Ayana whispered.
Sky placed the mug down and stood slowly, walking toward the window.
The chimes on the balcony rang, faint and musical.
"I've never had anything real before," she said. "Not like this. Not this quiet... steady thing."
Ayana came to stand beside her, close but not touching.
"You don't have to name it," she said. "We don't have to define it today."
Sky turned to face her. "But it is something. Right?"
Ayana's eyes searched hers. "Yes. It's something."
They stood there, two heartbeats in sync, two silences pressing into each other until the space between them felt thinner than breath.
Sky whispered, "I thought loving someone would feel like fire. But this... this feels like rain."
Ayana smiled faintly. "Both nourish things."
Later, they sat on the floor with music playing softly. Old soul classics—Aretha, Etta James, a little Otis Redding. The kind of music that didn't beg for attention but wrapped itself around your ribs anyway.
Sky asked questions she'd been afraid to ask.
"What made you want to teach?"
Ayana sipped her tea. "I wanted to be the person I needed when I was younger."
Sky nodded slowly. "Were you alone?"
Ayana's eyes went distant for a moment. "Not always. But sometimes being surrounded by the wrong people is lonelier than being alone."
Sky understood that too well.
"Did you ever..." She trailed off.
Ayana tilted her head. "What?"
"Did you ever love someone who didn't love you back?"
Ayana exhaled. "Yes."
Sky looked down. "Me too. A lot of people, actually. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just wired wrong."
Ayana reached for her hand gently. "You're not wrong. You just haven't been seen properly yet."
Sky's voice cracked. "Until now?"
Ayana squeezed her hand. "Until now."
Later that evening, Sky left Ayana's apartment with a calm that didn't feel like numbness. It felt like breath after drowning.
She didn't sleep that night. Instead, she wrote letters. Not to Ayana. Not for the anthology. Just... letters. To her past self. To the girl in the mirror. To the shadows she'd survived.
*"You made it. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But you did.
And even when you thought no one saw you, someone did.
She did."*
The next week unfolded slowly, gently.
Ayana didn't change anything in class. She still discussed literature with the same passion, the same poise. But Sky could feel the difference in the way Ayana's eyes lingered, in the way her voice softened when they spoke.
Kairo noticed too.
He caught up with Sky after class on Thursday.
"So... you two are...?"
Sky blinked. "No."
Kairo raised a brow. "But something's changed."
Sky shrugged. "Yeah. I think we both just... stopped pretending."
Kairo nodded thoughtfully. "That's rare. You okay?"
"More than okay," Sky said. "Which is strange. I don't think I know what to do with peace."
He grinned. "Give it a shot. You might like it."
On Saturday, Sky attended her first open mic night.
It was held in the art building's basement studio—a wide room with mismatched rugs, fairy lights strung across the beams, and beanbags lining the walls. The crowd was a mix of theater majors, poetry lovers, and awkward introverts trying to be brave.
Sky hadn't planned to speak.
But when the host invited "anyone with something burning in their chest," her hand lifted before her mind caught up.
She stepped up to the mic.
Her heart thundered.
She unfolded a piece of paper and read.
"I used to think being invisible was a blessing.
That silence was safety.
That disappearing was easier than being misunderstood.
But then someone looked at me like I was a story worth hearing.
And I haven't stopped writing since."
The room was quiet for a heartbeat.
Then soft claps. A few snaps. Gentle, affirming sounds that didn't feel performative.
When she stepped down, Ayana was in the back of the room.
Smiling.
Sky hadn't even seen her arrive.
Their eyes met.
Sky smiled back.
A few days later, the anthology was released—Letters Never Sent.
Sky's piece was featured in the opening section, still anonymous but raw and clear.
Ayana wrote the foreword.
*"Some truths are too soft to be shouted.
Some hearts only speak in lowercase.
This is for them—for the quiet ones whose silence held whole galaxies."*
Sky cried when she read it.
Not loud tears. Not sobs.
Just quiet drops that felt like rain on parched earth.
Finals approached like a storm no one could stop. Campus shifted into stress mode—sleepless nights, study groups, caffeine-fueled panics.
Sky focused on her classes, her essays, her own breath.
She and Ayana didn't cross lines.
Not in public.
Not yet.
But every now and then, in the privacy of Ayana's office or a shared hallway pause, their hands would brush. Their eyes would hold just a little longer.
Nothing was spoken aloud.
And yet everything had changed.
One afternoon, Sky sat on Ayana's couch again, sipping tea, reviewing her thesis draft.
Ayana looked up. "You've grown."
Sky blinked. "What?"
"Your writing. Your voice. It's stronger. Clearer."
Sky smiled faintly. "Maybe I just finally believe it deserves to be heard."
Ayana's gaze was soft. "It always did."
Sky set her papers down. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"What happens after this?"
Ayana paused. "You mean... us?"
Sky nodded.
Ayana leaned back. "You'll graduate. I'll keep teaching. Life will continue. But I don't want this—" she gestured between them "—to vanish when the semester ends."
Sky's voice was small. "Neither do I."
Ayana stood and crossed the room slowly. She knelt in front of Sky, taking her hands.
"We'll go slow," she said. "We'll be careful. We'll write our own rules."
Sky swallowed. "But we'll write them. Together."
"Yes."