The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and muted disappointment.
Amara stood quietly at the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her father looked tired — too tired for someone who used to fill rooms with laughter.
"You're doing well in school?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Amara smiled faintly, nodding. "Yes, Dad. I'm keeping up with everything."
From the corner, a sharp voice cut through the tender moment.
"You should think about dropping the year," her stepmother said, arms crossed tightly over her designer blazer. "This back-and-forth isn't helping anyone. Least of all your grades."
Amara stiffened, her nails biting into her palms.
"I'm managing just fine," she said, keeping her voice polite but firm.
Her stepmother's eyes narrowed. "There's no point dragging out the inevitable. You're only delaying real responsibilities. The sooner you accept that, the better."
Amara bit down the lump rising in her throat.
She glanced at her father — but he was already looking away, avoiding her gaze.
The hurt was swift and sharp, but she forced herself to smile again.
"I'll think about it," she lied smoothly.
Turning on her heel, Amara left the room before the walls closed in too tightly.
The weight of invisible expectations followed her all the way down the sterile hallway.
Meanwhile, across campus, the lecture hall buzzed with restless energy.
Nia adjusted her backpack, still slightly sore from yesterday's crash. She rubbed her elbow absentmindedly and plopped down into a chair near the middle row.
She yawned, blinking sleepily as students filed in around her.
The door creaked open — and in walked the last person she wanted to see.
The guy from the accident.
Except... he wasn't just some grumpy senior.
He was their professor.
Nia's mouth fell open.
No way. No freaking way.
Professor Carter — he'd introduced himself before starting the lecture — looked every inch the part of a serious, slightly terrifying academic.
Neatly pressed shirt. Calm, measured voice. Eyes that looked like they could dissect a soul without blinking.
Nia slouched down in her seat, willing herself to disappear.
How could a professor look so young? He couldn't be more than twenty-eight or twenty-nine!
"I expect punctuality, preparation, and participation," Professor Carter announced as he organized his papers.
Nia muttered under her breath, "And no getting run over by clumsy disasters like me..."
The girl next to her shot her a confused look.
Nia waved her off, cheeks burning.
Professor Carter's eyes swept over the class, then — fleetingly — paused when they landed on her.
Not for long. Barely a second.
But enough for Nia's stomach to plummet straight to her shoes.
She ducked her head immediately.
As if pretending not to exist could erase yesterday.
The class moved on, and for a while, Nia thought she could blend into the background.
Until, of course, fate decided otherwise.
When she reached into her bag to grab a pen, her entire binder tipped over, sending a cascade of loose papers fluttering across the floor.
The noise echoed like an explosion in the otherwise silent room.
Professor Carter looked up. Students turned.
Nia scrambled desperately, crawling under desks and muttering frantic apologies as she collected her runaway assignments.
It was official: she was a menace.
When she finally plopped back into her seat, red-faced and breathless, Professor Carter continued the lecture as if nothing happened.
Except —
Was that the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth?
Nia stared at her notebook, ears burning.
Please let a hole open in the ground and swallow me whole.
After the lecture ended, students filed out in noisy waves.
Nia slung her bag over one shoulder, practically speed-walking toward the exit.
She thought she was safe — until she caught, from the corner of her eye, Professor Carter casually glancing her way as he packed up his things.
No smirk. No judgment.
Just... mild curiosity.
Nia bolted.
Operation Invisibility: initiated.
But somehow, despite the utter disaster, a tiny part of her brain whispered...
Maybe... maybe there were worse people to crash into.
Way worse.
The next morning, Amara woke to soft sunlight filtering through the dorm curtains.
Nia was already gone — no doubt racing to avoid another run-in with her terrifying new professor.
Amara dragged herself out of bed, tied her hair up in a messy knot, and threw on a comfortable sweatshirt.
She tucked her camera — a gift from her real mother, years ago — into her bag.
Today, the Photography Club was covering the Interdepartmental Badminton Event.
Something light. Something different.
Maybe, just maybe, it would help shake off the heavy cloud pressing on her chest.
She arrived at the gymnasium just as the first matches were starting.
The place buzzed with energy — sneakers squeaking against polished wood floors, rackets smacking shuttlecocks midair, bursts of laughter and playful shouts.
The Photography Club members were already scattered around, snapping shots of players mid-dive, mid-smash, mid-celebration.
Amara slipped her camera strap around her neck and got to work, grateful for the shield of the lens between her and the world.
She moved carefully between groups, capturing candid moments: a girl high-fiving her teammate, a guy laughing after missing an easy shot, two opponents sharing a dramatic handshake after a tense match.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Nia, practically glowing with excitement as she darted across the court, her ponytail bouncing.
Nia wasn't half bad either — sharp movements, quick feet, and a huge grin on her face.
Amara lifted her camera to capture Nia lunging for a shot — and that's when she noticed him.
Kieran.
Standing near the sidelines, arms loosely folded across his chest, his Photography Club badge clipped neatly to his jacket.
He wasn't playing — of course he wasn't — but he was watching with a thoughtful sort of focus, likely studying angles for a good shot.
Amara's hands hesitated at her camera.
Her heart didn't skip or race.
There was no blush, no secret thrill.
It was just...
Awkward.
The memory of his casual, devastating proposal — the fake relationship — flickered unwanted in her mind.
Before she could stop herself, she stole a glance his way.
Kieran's eyes weren't on her.
He was scanning the players, looking completely absorbed in the event.
Still, Amara quickly adjusted her lens, pretending to focus on a group nearby.
It was ridiculous to feel anything at all.
But as she moved along the edge of the court, snapping more photos, she caught herself — just once — sneaking another glance at him.
Just... checking.
Just wondering if he still looked as unreadable as he had that day.
He did.
Kieran Hale was a closed book.
And Amara had no intention of flipping the pages anytime soon.
Instead, she let the lively atmosphere sweep her up.
The colorful jerseys.
The cheers echoing against the high gymnasium walls.
The playful arguments over missed shots.
The fresh, exhilarating feeling of being part of something.
For a while, it almost felt like she could forget the hospital room, the disappointment, the invisible expectations stacking up at her back.
Here, in this bright, noisy bubble, Amara was just another student, camera in hand, laughter in her ears.
And for now — that was enough.