The final week of classes arrived like a soft drumroll—steady, expectant, and impossible to ignore.
Sky could feel the shift in everything.
The way students clung to each minute like it might disappear. The tension in campus air. The dread in whispered conversations. The future loomed on the horizon like a city wrapped in fog—visible but unknowable.
And in the middle of it all stood the quiet thread she shared with Ayana.
Not defined. Not named.
But present.
It lived in the pauses of their conversations. In the glances that lasted a second too long. In the way Ayana's hand would brush hers when passing a paper, or how Sky's breathing slowed whenever she heard her voice in the hallway.
But now, time felt borrowed.
Sky sat on the grass behind the language building, her journal open on her lap. She'd tried to write a poem but ended up scribbling questions instead.
What are we?
Where does this go?
Can something that starts in silence survive the noise of the world?
She didn't have answers.
All she knew was that Ayana had become her anchor—and the idea of drifting away scared her more than anything.
"Hey," Kairo's voice broke through her thoughts.
Sky looked up, surprised. "Hey."
He sat beside her, dropping his bag and stretching his long legs out on the grass. "You missed poetry club."
Sky shrugged. "I've been... distracted."
He nodded knowingly. "She looked for you."
Sky's chest tightened. "Ayana?"
Kairo didn't answer directly. "You two are moving through something. I don't know what it is, but I can see it."
Sky looked down. "It's not what people think."
"I don't care what it is," Kairo said. "As long as it's not hurting you."
"It's not," Sky said softly. "It's actually the only thing that doesn't."
He picked a blade of grass and twirled it. "Then protect it."
Sky looked at him. "How do I do that?"
"By not running," he said. "And by letting her see the real you."
Sky exhaled. "That's the hardest part."
"I know," Kairo said. "But it's also the most worth it."
That evening, Sky found herself in Ayana's office after hours.
The sun was setting, casting orange streaks across the room. The blinds were half-drawn, and soft instrumental music played from Ayana's speaker. She was sorting books, her sweater sleeves pushed up, her hair clipped in a way that revealed the curve of her neck.
Sky stood in the doorway, hesitant.
Ayana turned and smiled. "You came."
"I wasn't sure if I should."
"I'm always glad when you do."
Sky stepped inside, letting the door close behind her. "It's almost over."
Ayana nodded. "The semester. Yes."
Sky sat on the couch, hugging a cushion. "It feels like something bigger is ending."
Ayana turned slowly. "Does it?"
Sky met her eyes. "Doesn't it?"
Ayana sat on the edge of her desk. "Only if we let it."
Silence fell between them.
But this one felt heavy.
Sky fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie. "What happens after next week?"
Ayana walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On what you want," Ayana said softly.
Sky looked away. "I don't want to disappear."
"You won't."
"But I might," Sky whispered. "That's what I do. I get close, then I vanish. And I hate that part of me."
Ayana knelt in front of her. "Then let's rewrite that part."
Sky blinked. "How?"
"By staying. Even when it's hard."
Tears stung Sky's eyes. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," Ayana said. "But it's worth it."
Sky touched Ayana's face, fingertips grazing her cheekbone. "Do you really want this? Me?"
Ayana closed her eyes briefly. "Yes. In every quiet way."
They didn't kiss.
They didn't need to.
But their foreheads touched, and their hands held fast.
And that was more intimate than anything Sky had ever known.
The next morning, Ayana received a formal notice in her inbox.
Subject: Faculty-Student Boundary Reminder
From: Department Chair
To: All Faculty
"As the academic year concludes, we remind staff to uphold university policies regarding professional boundaries with students. Any emotional or personal entanglements that risk academic integrity or faculty impartiality must be reported and reviewed."
Ayana stared at the message for a long time.
Her stomach coiled with anxiety.
No one had seen them. No lines had been publicly crossed. But the warning was clear, and the risk was real.
Still, she didn't delete it.
She printed the email and tucked it into her drawer, beneath her lesson plans.
Then she closed the laptop and stood up, knowing she'd have to tell Sky.
Sky's final essay for African Literature was due that day.
She'd poured herself into it—layers of meaning, emotion folded between quotes from Achebe and Dangarembga. Her title read:
"Between Silence and Sound: How Stories Save the Unspoken"
She handed it in during office hours, her fingers trembling slightly as she slid it onto Ayana's desk.
Ayana looked up, eyes gentle.
"Thank you."
Sky hesitated. "Can I stay for a minute?"
Ayana nodded. "Always."
They waited until the hallway emptied.
Then Ayana stood and closed the door.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
Sky's breath caught. "Is something wrong?"
"Not between us," Ayana said. "But this—" she gestured vaguely between them "—it's real, and it's growing, and the university has rules. If someone reported us... things could get complicated."
Sky's face fell. "You're ending this."
"No," Ayana said quickly. "I'm being honest. I'm not ashamed of what we share. But I want to protect it. And that means waiting."
Sky's voice shook. "Waiting for what?"
"For the semester to end," Ayana said. "For the space where this doesn't have power over our futures."
Sky swallowed hard. "And until then?"
"I'm here," Ayana said. "I'm still me. You're still you. We're still this."
Sky nodded slowly. "Okay. I understand."
Ayana reached for her hand. "We'll get there."
Graduation came with sun and speeches and awkward gowns.
Sky didn't walk the stage. She watched from the edge of the crowd, half-hidden behind a pillar near the auditorium. She didn't like fanfare. Didn't want her name announced to people who'd never really known her.
But she saw Ayana there—clapping politely for other students, eyes scanning the crowd.
Sky didn't wave.
But she stayed long enough to know Ayana had looked.
That night, Sky wrote a final letter.
*Dear Me,
You didn't break this time.
You stayed.
You loved quietly and were loved in return.
Maybe that's all we ever needed to believe.*
She folded the page and slipped it into her journal.
Three days passed.
Then a message came:
From: Ayana M.
Subject: Coffee?
Semester's over. I owe you a real conversation—and maybe a scone.
Sky stared at the screen, smiling.
She wrote back:
Only if you let me pick the music.
They met at a quiet café near the botanical garden—one of those places with too many plants and mismatched mugs and chairs that creaked.
Ayana was already there, seated by the window, her curls loose around her face, a book in her lap.
Sky slid into the seat across from her.
Neither spoke for a minute.
Then Sky said, "You waited."
Ayana closed the book. "I said I would."
Sky smiled. "Then let's talk."
They talked about everything and nothing.
About books.
About grief.
About names and pasts and how hard it is to be soft in a world that demands hardness.
They laughed.
They lingered.
They let the air between them breathe.
And when the sky outside dimmed into lavender, Ayana reached across the table.
"Can I hold your hand?" she asked.
Sky slid her fingers into hers.
"You already do," she said.