Zara pov
A week flew by faster than I expected.
Somehow, in the silent, unspoken way life forms routines, Isa and I had unconsciously fallen into one. She wasn't just my roommate anymore—she'd become something stable. Something soft.
Juniper was… tolerable. Nice, even. But my body still stayed a little tense around her, like it didn't know how to relax yet. Isa, though—Isa was easy.
Today was our first day of classes, and I woke up buzzing with a kind of nervous excitement I hadn't felt since moving to the UK.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror and let myself breathe.
The suit I'd chosen wasn't dramatic—not loud, not flashy—but somehow still eye-catching. A creamy white, body-skimming two-piece, soft to the touch, with a cropped jacket and tapered trousers that fit like they were made for me.
Elegant. Quiet. Expensive-looking without trying.
I slipped my feet into subtle heels, nothing too high. Just enough to carry the outfit with grace.
Then I packed my braids into a sleek bun, leaving two strands out to frame my face—my soft cheat code for my forehead insecurity.
When I stepped out, Isa froze mid-motion with her mascara wand in hand.
"Zara," she mouthed, eyes widening. "You look like a walking Vogue spread. Why are you dressed like money today?"
I blinked. "…This is normal. It's Monday."
"Monday doesn't mean Met Gala, babe."
I flushed, suddenly unsure.
She was wearing something simple but classy—a ribbed long-sleeve top tucked into straight-leg jeans, a cropped trench, gold hoops. Effortless.
We grabbed our bags and headed out. The school's fresh air felt different today—charged, somehow.
Students whispered as we walked past. Their eyes lingered.
Isa leaned closer. "People are staring."
"At what? My outfit?" I scoffed. "It's literally Monday. Nigerians dress corporate on Mondays; it's normal."
"This is not Nigeria," Isa muttered.
But I ignored her, slipping into my seat once we reached the lecture hall.
The classroom buzzed with chatter. I texted my mom:
First day. Wish me luck.
No reply yet.
That was fine. I tucked my phone away.
Class began when a striking Black woman walked in. Wide-leg trousers, cropped blazer, glasses low on her nose. Authority wrapped in quiet elegance.
She didn't introduce herself. She didn't need to.
Her gaze swept the room—and stopped on me.
"You," she said, pointing slightly. "Stand."
My heart thumped. I slowly rose as everyone turned.
For a second, I felt twelve again—shy, awkward, wanting to disappear.
Then she added, "Class, fashion communicates before the mouth does. Let's analyze her outfit. Zara, what story are you telling today?"
And just like that, something clicked inside me.
My fear folded away.
Fashion was my language.
I breathed and answered, voice steady:
"Well… I chose monochrome white because it's bold without being loud. It announces presence quietly."
A few people nodded.
"The cut is structured enough to show seriousness—but the cropped jacket softens it. It says I'm confident but still approachable."
The professor raised a brow, impressed.
"The fabric," I continued, "has a soft sheen. Under light, it looks luxurious but calm. And the silhouette… it's elegance, but gentle. Something intentional, but soft."
I forgot I was in a room.
Forgot everything.
"This outfit communicates restraint, control, and warmth all at once."
The class went silent—not shocked… just respectful.
The professor nodded once.
"Very good. Sit."
Isa leaned toward me the moment I sat down.
"Do you secretly own a fashion empire or something? Because that was genius."
I only smiled tightly.
I did have a brand I'd been building on the side—quietly, slowly—but I wasn't ready to share that yet.
The rest of the lecture drifted by smoothly, nothing stressful. I even enjoyed it. When it ended, I felt light—hopeful.
Walking out with Isa, a few students tried making small talk, asking about my outfit, my hair, my background, everything.
My social battery evaporated instantly.
Without a word, I reached for my headset, slipped it on, and kept walking.
I was weaving through the crowd when I collided with someone. Hard.
My phone nearly slipped from my hand.
When I looked up—
Ginger.
Again.
His lips curled. "Darlin', we gotta stop meeting like this, or I'll start thinking you're in love with me."
My breath hitched.
Not in a good way.
I stepped back automatically, trying to walk around him—but he shifted, blocking me.
"Oh no, not so fast." His voice dropped lower.
"Just leave—" I tried, but the words shriveled.
He leaned forward. "You think you can bump into me every other day and—"
A sharp smack echoed.
Isa had arrived.
"Move," she snapped at him, yanking my wrist and dragging me away without waiting for a response. "Creep."
My body trembled—not from fear this time, but anger. It crawled under my skin.
We didn't stop until we reached the same café from last week.
Isa pushed me gently into a seat. "You okay?"
I nodded, though I wasn't sure.
"What do you want to order?" she asked.
I stared at the menu. The letters swam.
I only knew one thing.
"Nothing too sweet," I mumbled. "Please."
Isa nodded, already heading to the counter.
I sat there, breathing slowly, waiting for my heart to catch up to my body—thinking maybe this university thing wouldn't be so easy after all.
---
We stayed in the café for almost half an hour.
Isa rambled about class, and random campus gossip… and I let her.
The sound of her voice grounded me.
Then she stretched, glanced at the time.
"Juniper wants to see me. You'll be fine alone, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I just need to lie down a bit."
She told me where she'd be, but honestly… I wasn't listening. My head felt too full.
Back at the dorm, I washed my face, changed into something comfortable, and sat on the edge of my bed.
The feeling crept back.
That sensation of being watched.
It wasn't loud—just a whisper at the back of my neck. A prickle.
No evidence. No shadows. No footsteps.
Just intuition.
I shook it off.
Fresh air. A walk. That should clear my mind.
I grabbed my jacket and left the dorm, letting my feet take me wherever they wanted.
I walked for minutes… maybe hours. I didn't check.
The campus blurred into quiet corners and pathways I hadn't seen before.
Then—
Thwack.
A heavy punch.
Then another.
Curiosity tugged at me, and I followed the sound around a back path behind one of the older buildings.
There it was—a small, hidden boxing space.
An enclosed ring, worn punching bags, dim overhead lights.
It looked forgotten, tucked away like a secret.
A middle-aged man noticed me before I could sneak away.
"You interested?" he asked, wiping his forehead with a towel.
"Oh—no. I was just—"
"You look tense," he said simply. "Punching helps."
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He waited, patient. Kind.
"…Maybe just a few?" I whispered.
He smiled like he already expected that answer.
He wrapped my hands gently and showed me how to stand.
How to angle my body.
How to keep my wrist straight.
"Hit the bag," he said. "Don't think. Just breathe."
So I did.
The first punch stung.
The second one loosened something in my chest.
By the third, I felt… lighter.
Relieved.
Strangely proud.
I kept going, almost forgetting someone else was there until I felt eyes on me.
I turned.
A guy I hadn't noticed before leaned against the far wall—tall, broad shoulders, black hair falling slightly over one eye.
His jawline sharp, his cheekbone bruised like he'd just finished sparring.
His gaze wasn't flirtatious.
It wasn't amused.
It was analytical.
Focused.
Watching me a little too intensely.
I swallowed.
He looked dangerous in the quiet way—not the loud, aggressive way.
Like he had demons he was not afraid to fight.
When our eyes met, he didn't look away.
Not even a flinch.
I shifted, uncomfortable, suddenly aware of the sweat at my temples.
The trainer clapped once. "Good session. Think about joining."
I nodded quickly. "I'll… I'll think about it. Thank you."
I untied the wraps, avoiding the guy's eyes, but I could still feel him watching me.
Following me with his gaze all the way to the exit.
Outside, the air felt colder.
I pulled my jacket tighter and began walking back toward the dorm when—
A sound behind me made my heart stop.
A crunch.
Soft.
Like a footstep on gravel.
I froze.
Slowly turned.
The pathway behind me was empty.
But the feeling…
The feeling of eyes watching me?
Stronger than ever.