Nina's POV
I woke up to the soft buzz of my alarm at 7:00 a.m. The sun was barely peeking through our cream curtains, casting a golden tint over the room. Sophie was still curled up on her bunk, breathing softly. I just lay there for a while, letting the silence hold me, before dragging myself out of bed.
We didn't have class until nine, but I liked to take my time getting ready. Rushing always made me feel scattered, and I needed all the calm I could get.
The bathroom tiles were cold under my feet as I stepped into the shower. The warm water fell over my skin like a hug I didn't have to ask for. I tilted my head back and let it run over me, trying to drown out the noise in my head.
My fingers brushed against the scar on my back.
A faded, jagged reminder of that night. The night I stepped in between my father and Kuti when Kuti had lost it again. I remember the panic. The shouting. My mother's shaking hands. And the searing pain I didn't even feel until hours later.
My breath caught.
I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned against the wall, grounding myself.
A soft tap on the bathroom door brought me back.
"Ninaaa," Sophie's muffled voice floated through. "I need your help. What shoes should I wear? Brown sneakers or the gray Nikes?"
I smiled despite myself. "The brown's cute," I called back, "but save them for a special day, princess. Go with the gray."
She laughed, a bright little giggle that made the room feel lighter. "You always know."
After my shower, I massaged a cool, mint-scented lotion into my skin—Dr. Teal's, the eucalyptus and spearmint one. It soothed the ache behind my shoulders and left me feeling like I could maybe face the world today.
I pulled on a calm, cozy outfit: a soft beige crop tee tucked into loose, dark denim jeans, with clean white sneakers and a little silver anklet that peeked when I walked. Nothing loud. Just me.
My tote bag had all my basics: a couple notebooks, my tiny sketch pad, lip gloss, wipes, a few snacks, and sunscreen. Just in case the sun decided to get dramatic.
Sophie had already left for her Geometry class. Some science-y course she said she hated but always aced anyway. I hadn't even looked at my schedule until this morning.
I was alone. And for once, it didn't feel heavy. Just… quiet.
I headed to campus on foot. It was a short walk, but I took my time, letting my eyes wander over every building, every student rushing past, every tree lined up like it had something to prove. The air smelled like coffee, grass, and warm concrete. Somehow, it made me feel grounded.
Finding my literature class wasn't as simple as I hoped. I walked in what felt like endless circles—reading room numbers, checking maps, slipping into wrong classes and getting pointed right back out.
But I found it. Right on time.
The room was packed. Not a single empty row. I slid into a seat near the middle, squished between a girl sketching flowers in the margin of her textbook and a guy who looked like he'd been awake since 3 a.m. and hated it.
The professor walked in. He looked like a walking TED Talk — messy curls, long coat, and glasses that made him look half-sleep, half-genius.
Class started fast. No introductions. Just words.
We were barely twenty minutes in when a heated discussion broke out.
It started with a reading about moral ambiguity in character development. And somehow it spiraled into this sharp, intellectual tug-of-war between two students.
One argued that a flawed protagonist is still accountable for their damage. The other countered that the world around them makes healing nearly impossible, and survival is enough.
The professor smiled like he lived for this chaos. "Let's hear more. Who wants to weigh in?"
I did. God, I did.
Because both of them were right. And wrong. And I had a whole storm in my chest just waiting to be translated into words. I even opened my mouth. But nothing came out.
Maybe next time.
Sophie sent me a bunch of weird selfies during class. Apparently her Geometry teacher was "fine but had the personality of a dry wall." I couldn't stop smiling.
The professor wrapped up the session with a curveball.
"I want a one-month journal assignment," he said. "Observations on humanity. Real life. Real people. No fiction. Pick a subject. Study them. Write."
My stomach twisted. People-watching, basically. My kind of thing. But still—exposing what I saw in others meant I'd have to look too closely.
When class ended, I stayed in my seat, waiting for the crowd to thin out. I've never liked moving in a herd. It makes me feel invisible.
But the room wasn't clearing fast enough.
I finally stood up and started weaving through the mass of backpacks and bodies, gripping my water bottle a little tighter.
And that's when it happened.
Someone bumped into me. Hard. My water bottle tilted and splashed onto a stranger's shirt.
"Shit—I'm so—"
"I freaking hate girls and their Stanleys," the guy snapped.
He stormed off before I could say a word.
But his voice… I recognized it.
From last night.
That voice that had folded into my memory like a line of poetry I couldn't shake.
It was him.
My "art."
The boy who spoke and made other men listen.
Now he was just a pissed-off guy with wet sleeves.
And I'd just become the girl with the stupid water bottle.
Sophie waited for me outside campus, waving from a bench like she hadn't just made me climb mountains in my head. We headed to this tiny burger spot she loved.
The fries were crispy. The soda was too sweet. The burgers were perfect.
She showed me around a few blocks — bookstores, coffee joints, a thrift shop she swore by — before we headed back to Linden.
She went to the library. I didn't.
I curled up in bed with a blanket and started binging a series I'd seen a hundred times.
The world felt big and heavy again.
But I was still breathing.
And for today, that would have to be enough.