The moment I heard "Amara fainted", something inside me froze.
The air in the hall felt too thick to breathe.
Before anyone could stop me, I was already running — out the door, down the corridor, past startled students. The cheers and laughter from the other performers blurred into a single hum.
The world narrowed into one thought — Please, let her be okay.
By the time I reached the back field, a small crowd had gathered. The grass was damp from last night's rain, and the wind carried a faint chill. I pushed through until I saw her — Amara — lying motionless near the mango tree, her notebook still clutched tightly in her hand.
Her eyes were closed, her face pale. Someone had placed a folded blazer under her head.
"Move, let her breathe!" Mrs. Josephine's voice cut through the noise as she knelt beside her. "Call the nurse, now!"
I dropped to my knees beside Amara. "Amara, hey… it's me. Can you hear me?" My voice shook. I didn't even care who was watching.
Her lashes fluttered slightly, her breathing shallow. I held her hand — it was cold, almost weightless.
"Please wake up," I whispered, my voice breaking. "You still have to read your poem…"
Someone touched my shoulder — it was Chinonso.
"Bro, let them carry her to the sick bay," he said quietly. "You're shaking."
I didn't even realize it until then — my hands were trembling.
They carried her to the nurse's office.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp paper. The nurse checked her pulse, temperature, and finally nodded.
"She's stable. Probably exhaustion. Maybe she hasn't eaten."
Mrs. Josephine sighed in relief. "She's been staying up late rehearsing. I should've told her to rest."
I stayed near the door, every nerve tense. Watching her breathe, slow and steady, was both a relief and a torment.
After everyone left, I asked quietly, "Can I stay with her a bit?"
The nurse hesitated, then nodded. "Just don't wake her if she's sleeping."
The room grew silent after she left.
I sat on the chair beside Amara's bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest. A strand of hair had fallen across her forehead, and without thinking, I reached out to move it gently aside.
She looked so peaceful.
And yet, something about that peace scared me — like it was hiding something heavier.
On the table beside her lay the notebook she always carried. The edges were worn, the ink slightly smudged. My eyes caught the last page, and before I could stop myself, I opened it.
The handwriting was hers — neat, flowing — but what I read made my heart stop.
> "Sometimes, the hardest part of holding on is pretending you're not already slipping away."
"If tomorrow I'm gone before the spotlight finds me… I hope the waves remember my voice."
I closed the notebook slowly. My throat tightened.
"What do you mean by that, Amara…?" I whispered.
A soft sound broke the silence — a faint sigh.
I looked up. Amara's eyes were open now, weak but awake.
"Hey," I said, leaning forward, relief flooding through me. "You scared everyone."
She blinked, then smiled faintly. "I didn't mean to."
"You fainted," I said gently. "You should've told someone you weren't feeling well."
She hesitated. "I didn't want to worry anyone. The poem mattered."
"You matter," I said without thinking.
Her eyes flickered — a hint of surprise, then something softer. "You always say things like that."
"Because they're true."
For a long moment, we just sat there, the air filled with unspoken things. Her fingers brushed against mine — just slightly — but enough to make my heartbeat quicken.
"I'll still perform," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady. "Even if it's just a whisper."
"You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not proving," she said, looking away. "I just… don't like unfinished things."
Before I could reply, the nurse returned, announcing, "You can see her after the event. She needs rest."
I nodded reluctantly.
As I turned to leave, Amara's voice stopped me.
"Onyedika…"
I turned.
"If something happens… promise me you'll finish the poem."
"What?" I asked, confused. "Nothing's going to happen."
She smiled — soft, distant. "Just promise."
I hesitated, then said quietly, "I promise."
The hall was already full when I returned. The lights shimmered against the stage curtains, voices rose, laughter filled the air — but it all felt far away.
When our names were called and Amara still hadn't arrived, Mrs. Josephine turned to me. "Can you perform it alone?"
I froze. "Without her?"
She nodded solemnly. "She wanted this. Go."
My hands shook as I stepped onto the stage. The spotlight hit me — blinding, heavy.
I looked at the crowd, at the faces blurred by the light. Then I took a breath and began to speak her words — our words.
Each line carried her voice, her rhythm, her quiet strength.
By the last verse, my throat tightened.
> "And if the waves should rise before the morning comes,
I'll remember your voice — soft as the tide,
fierce as the sun."
The hall was silent when I finished. Then — applause. Loud, echoing, endless.
But I couldn't smile.
Because as I left the stage, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a message from the nurse.
> "Please come quickly. It's Amara."
My blood ran cold.