There was a new buzz around campus—one that hummed through the hallways, whispered across lockers, and echoed between the boys in the quad.
Her name was Geraldine.
Tall, fine, and impossibly curvy, she had walked into class that Monday morning like she owned the floor tiles. Her skin glowed like honey under the morning light. Her edges were laid. Her lips glossed. And her waist? Snatched like it had no business being real.
She wore the nursing school uniform like it was custom-tailored: pristine white gown, middle buttons shining, her belt neatly knotted, and her nursing cap resting at the perfect angle. Not a wrinkle in sight. Even her ID card hung like jewelry.
The moment she entered, every male head turned. Whispers followed her like a perfume trail.
"Who's that?"
"New transfer from Lagos, I heard."
"She fine die."
"I'll shoot my shot."
Amara watched from her seat near the back, blinking slowly as she sipped her lukewarm water. She had just woken up—again—from another mid-class nap. Her body was present, but her brain? Still on the pillow back at the hostel.
Another whisper came from her right. "She's too fine to be in this school. Is she even real?"
Amara rolled her eyes.
Geraldine took the empty seat in the front row. Of course.
Kelsey leaned closer to Amara and whispered, "Looks like trouble."
Trouble wasn't the word. Geraldine wasn't loud. She didn't need to be. Her silence was confident, her stare sharp. She brought out a thick textbook and began flipping pages with intention. By the time the lecturer walked in, she was already taking notes like the lesson had begun ten minutes earlier.
Amara yawned again, blinking fast to stay awake. Her body was still catching up from the last week's emotional rollercoaster. She had survived resits, survived humiliation, and survived being told she didn't belong. But lately, no matter how early she slept, her body betrayed her.
Midway through class, her head dipped again. Her pen slipped out of her hand.
Her eyes shut.
And sleep swallowed her whole.
She awoke fifteen minutes later to the sound of chalk scratching on the board. Her neck ached from the weird angle, and she quickly wiped a bit of drool from her cheek. Kelsey shot her a glance—not judging, just concerned.
Meanwhile, Geraldine was still writing. Still alert. Still perfect.
Amara sat up straight, ashamed of herself.
But even in that shame, one thing remained true—she still couldn't care less about the boys swooning over Geraldine. Amara had always known that dating someone from her set wasn't for her. She hated the childish flirting, the performative compliments, the drama. If she was going to fall in love, it wasn't going to be with a guy who copied his notes last-minute and spent more time talking about girls than studying.
She preferred guys from the outside. Older. Focused. Men with real ambition and actual respect.
Not classroom boys who drooled at anything with curves.
Still, Geraldine's presence stirred something else in Amara—insecurity.
It wasn't just the beauty. It was the way Geraldine sat confidently in front. The way she always had a textbook in hand, like she ate knowledge for breakfast. The way lecturers immediately noticed her. She didn't speak much, but when she did, her voice was cool and calculated.
"Answer to question two," she had said just that morning, when no one else raised a hand. "The treatment protocol for septic shock includes fluid resuscitation with isotonic crystalloids, followed by vasopressors if hypotension persists. Antibiotic therapy should not be delayed."
Even Mrs. Holland was impressed. "You're absolutely right. Very detailed."
Amara felt the pang deep in her stomach.
And later that day, as she lay on her bed trying to revise for the next test, Kelsey walked in and tossed her bag down.
"She's something, huh?" she asked.
"Who?" Amara pretended.
"Geraldine."
Amara didn't respond right away. She flipped a page, sighed, and muttered, "She's alright."
Kelsey grinned. "The boys are losing their minds. You're the only one not distracted."
Amara shrugged. "Not interested. They'll be drooling today and ghosting next week."
Kelsey laughed, flopping on the other bed. "Amen to that."
But even as Amara forced a smile, her mind lingered.
What was it like to have that kind of confidence? That effortless charm? That perfect attention in class without the struggle of staying awake?
She felt the guilt creep in again. She was trying. She was really trying. But lately, her brain felt like mush, her body heavy, and her ambition… distant.
She stared at her own reflection in the small mirror by the bunk.
Her face was tired. Her eyes hollow.
But she was still here.
She had passed.
She was fighting.
Still, the hallway whispers that evening didn't help.
"Geraldine got a commendation from the Anatomy lecturer."
"She finished her entire week's notes by herself."
"I heard she corrected Mrs. Holland."
Amara rolled her eyes and slipped her headphones on. She wasn't here to compete. She was here to graduate.
And if Geraldine wanted to walk around like Miss Future Florence Nightingale? So be it.
But deep down, she knew… this girl wasn't just competition.
She was a mirror—of everything Amara wished she was right now.