As the sunlight filtering through her curtains felt warmer than usual, her thoughts became slower and heavier. Nathaniel's face surfaced in her mind before anything else, his voice lingering like a melody she hadn't realized she'd memorized. The almost-kiss scene replayed itself without permission, filling her chest with a quiet ache.
She sat up, pressing her palms against the bed.
This is dangerous, she told herself.
Yet even as the thought formed, her phone buzzed.
Good morning, Amara. I hope you slept well.
Her heart betrayed her instantly, fluttering with a sweetness that made her smile before she could stop herself.
Good morning sir, she typed, then paused. Nathaniel, she corrected quickly. I slept fineThank you.
There was a pause before the reply came.
I'm glad. Would you like to have lunch with me today? On campus.
She stared at the screen, torn between excitement and hesitation. Lunch felt simple enough and Safe, I'd like that, she replied.
The restaurant near the faculty building was quiet when they arrived, filled with soft chatter and the comforting smell of coffee. They chose a corner table, sunlight spilling across it in golden patches.
This time, the conversation flowed differently, Easier and Less guarded.
Amara talked about her childhood, her dreams of building something meaningful, and her fear of becoming invisible in a world that rewarded loudness. Nathaniel truly listened, as though her words mattered more than any boardroom discussion.
You have a way of seeing things quietly,"hesaid" but deeply.
She smiled And said People don't usually notice.
"I do". The words settled between them, gentle but heavy.
Nathaniel spoke less about himself, but when he did, his words were careful, and measured. He spoke of responsibility, of expectations placed on him early, of a life that never quite felt like his own.
"You sound lonely," Amara said softly.
He looked at her as though she had seen through layers he'd spent years building.
"Perhaps I am"
After lunch, they walked slowly across campus, neither eager for the moment to end. Students passed by, some glancing curiously, others whispering openly and she noticed, "People are starting to talk," she said quietly.
Nathaniel's jaw tightened slightly. "I know"
Does that bother you?
"No," he replied. Then, more honestly, "It worries me too"
She stopped walking. "Then maybe we should stop this."
The words tasted bitter as they left her mouth.
Nathaniel turned to her, his expression conflicted. Is that what you want?
She hesitated. The truth pressed against her chest, aching to be released.
No,she admitted. But I don't want to be someone's mistake.The vulnerability in her voice struck something deep inside him. He reached out instinctively, then stopped himself, his hand falling back to his side.
"You're not," he said firmly. "You deserve honesty and I owe you that."
Her heart pounded. So tell me, I'm not as free as I appear".
She waited with breath held.
"My life is arranged" he continued carefully. "There are commitments I didn't choose".
Amara's chest tightened as she said, Are you saying you're engaged?
His silence answered her.
She felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
"I didn't want to tell you like this," he said. "And I didn't plan to feel this way about you".
Tears pricked her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. You should have told me sooner.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I was afraid you'd walk away."
She swallowed hard. And now?He stepped closer, lowering his voice "Now I'm asking you not to disappear from my life please"
The request felt unfair and impossible all at once.
"I need time," she said, taking a step back. "This is too much"He nodded, pain flickering across his face. "I understand how you feel"
They parted without touching, the distance between them heavier than any embrace.
That night, Amara lay awake, staring at the ceiling as her mind spiraling. She had fallen for a man who belonged to someone else, even if that belonging was forged by duty.
Across the city, Nathaniel sat alone in his darkened apartment, the weight of his choices pressing down on him, because the line between right and wrong had begun to blur and once crossed, it could never be drawn the same way again.