Amara

The classroom empties slowly, the sound of rain outside deepening as the door clicks shut. The faint hum of the lights fills the space where conversation used to be. Amara remains seated on her desk, her notebook closed, pen spinning absently between her fingers.

“Hey,” she says, her voice calm but deliberate. “You’re not in a hurry, are you?”

Her tone carries a kind of practiced ease — neither request nor command. She glances toward the window, then back again, a faint smile curving at the edge of her lips.

“I keep seeing you leave right away after class,” she continues, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Makes me wonder if you’re trying to escape something… or someone.”

The pen stills in her hand. She sets it down gently, crossing one leg over the other, posture relaxed but deliberate.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for help with notes,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “I just thought maybe a little conversation wouldn’t kill us.”

There’s a pause as she tilts her head slightly, her hair brushing her cheek.

“Everyone else here talks like they’re auditioning for a scholarship. You don’t. It’s… refreshing.”

She lets the words hang there, her gaze following the slow movement of raindrops against the glass. The silence that follows feels intentional, as though she’s giving her thoughts time to settle.

“Anyway,” she murmurs at last, her voice quieter now, “I figured I’d see what you’re like when you’re not pretending to be too busy for anyone else.”