People see what they want to see.
If you dress well, answer questions in class, and laugh at the right jokes, they'll assume you're okay. Sometimes I wonder if I became good at pretending, or if the world just became better at ignoring.
The truth is—I haven't felt "okay" in a long time. But that's not the kind of thing you bring up in group chats or after lectures. It's not something you say when your scholarship depends on being functional.
So, I exist. Quietly. Like wallpaper.
Today is a Monday. Orion State University always feels cold on Mondays, like even the buildings haven't had enough coffee. The sky hangs low, like it knows we're all faking it.
I walk past crowds of students, most of them glued to their phones or deep in conversation. My headphones are in, but no music plays. I just want the world to leave me alone.
And it usually does.
Until today.
---
*"Ayanna?"*
I turn.
It's Tari.
He's tall, always wears hoodies that look stolen from someone more important, and somehow knows everybody on campus. Even the cleaners greet him like they're old friends.
I hate that he remembers my name.
"Yeah?"
"You dropped this," he says, holding out a notebook I didn't know I'd lost.
It's my poetry journal. The one I never meant to bring out of my room.
My stomach drops.
"Oh—thanks," I say too fast, snatching it like it's a weapon.
He doesn't ask what's inside. Just smiles. "You're in Literature 203, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. You're Ayanna Cole. The girl who always looks like she's solving life."
I blink. "What does that even mean?"
He shrugs. "You've got that serious face. Like you know something the rest of us don't."
I want to laugh. If only he knew.
Instead, I nod. "Maybe I do."
---
That night, I read through the poems in the notebook he returned.
They're raw. Unfiltered. Some of them I wrote during my lowest nights.
I tear a page out, read it, then fold it and burn it with a match from the drawer.
Ash floats into my sink like dead feathers.
I wonder if healing means erasing, or simply hiding the parts that never fit.
I don't have the answer.
Not yet.
But I feel it coming.
Like rain.
---
The next day, the sky finally breaks.
It rains the way it only does in the city—angry, loud, without warning. I didn't bring an umbrella. Of course.
I stand under the library's overhang, watching students dash like wet ants across the quad. I could wait, but I don't want to be seen standing still.
"Didn't bring one either," a voice says beside me.
Tari again.
Of course.
He holds up his empty hands like proof.
"You following me?" I ask, half-teasing, half-weary.
He grins. "You think I've got enough free time to follow girls with rain-cursed luck?"
I shrug. "Stranger things have happened."
He pauses. "Let's walk."
"Through this?"
"Why not? The rain's not what drowns you."
That line catches me off guard. I stare at him.
He just walks into the downpour like it's nothing. I hesitate… then follow.
We walk in silence. My shoes soak. My hair drips. But somehow, I don't mind.
Maybe it's the way he doesn't try to fill the silence. Or the way he doesn't ask me what I'm thinking.
I've known him for three days. And already, he feels more honest than people I've lived beside for a year.
---
We reach the old canteen—empty at this hour.
Tari wipes rain off his neck, then glances at me. "Why Orion?"
"Huh?"
"This school. You could've gone anywhere, right?"
I scoff. "That's funny."
"Why?"
"Because people like me don't go anywhere. We *escape* places. Orion had a scholarship. That's it."
He studies me for a moment. "You're more than your scholarship."
I snort. "Please don't try to fix me, Tari. I'm not your campus charity project."
His eyes harden—not offended, just real.
"I'm not trying to fix you," he says. "I'm just trying to see you."
And there it is.
That quiet line that cuts deeper than it should.
---
That night, I sit on my bed with my notebook.
For the first time in months, I write something new.
Not a poem about pain.
But a letter to myself.
A girl who's tired of being strong.
A girl who wants to be held without being told to smile.
A girl who's not fine.
Not yet.
But maybe… finally becoming.
---