Sky never expected silence to be so loud.
The moment she stepped onto campus Monday morning, the air felt different. Charged. Tense. She wasn't imagining it—she knew how people looked at her now. It wasn't just stares; it was pauses. It was quick glances that lingered too long. Whispered tones that lowered just as she passed.
She'd been invisible for years. Now, suddenly, people saw her. But it wasn't her they were seeing—it was a version of her, shaped by gossip and suspicion.
Her throat tightened as she walked through the English department building, gripping the strap of her backpack so hard her fingers hurt. Her name wasn't spoken aloud, but the weight of being noticed pressed on her chest like a physical burden.
It wasn't until Kairo found her outside the library that she exhaled.
He approached with two takeaway cups. "Your usual," he said softly, offering one.
Sky blinked. "Thanks."
They walked in silence for a few steps. Sky sipped. The coffee was warm, sweet, familiar—something grounding in the fog.
"You okay?" Kairo asked, eyes searching hers.
Sky hesitated. "No."
"Wanna talk?"
She looked around. Too many ears. Too many eyes.
"Not here."
They cut across campus, slipping into the quiet stairwell behind the old theater hall—a place no one used anymore. Dust hung in the air like history.
Sky leaned against the wall and stared at the floor. "They know."
Kairo folded his arms. "Who's 'they'?"
"Everyone. Or enough people that it doesn't matter."
He leaned beside her. "You and Ayana?"
Sky nodded.
He didn't look surprised. "I figured."
Sky's jaw clenched. "Someone said I had a 'thing for older women in power.' Like I'm a punchline."
Kairo looked at her with something gentler than pity. "You're not."
"I didn't think I'd care what people thought," she said quietly. "But I do. I thought I'd be stronger than this."
He tilted his head. "Being brave doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. It just means you keep going."
Sky looked at him. "You're not judging me?"
"Sky," he said, "if I ever gave a shit about what other people thought, I wouldn't even be here. I'd still be pretending to be someone I'm not. Hiding's exhausting."
She let out a shaky breath. "I don't want to hide."
"Then don't," Kairo said, his voice firm. "You're not wrong for wanting someone who sees you."
Elsewhere, Ayana felt the shift, too.
In the faculty lounge, the air was tight. Conversation hushed when she entered. She offered her usual polite nods, but today, no one smiled back.
Except Dr. Lewis, the Head of Department. He gave her a small, unreadable look before returning to his newspaper.
She poured herself coffee, ignored the subtle tension in the room, and checked her phone.
A message from Sky.
People are whispering.
Ayana's stomach knotted. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I know. I'm sorry.
Then a second message:
I'll protect you.
Sky's reply was almost immediate.
I don't want to hide. But I don't want to drown either.
Ayana closed her eyes, the words wrapping around her ribs like vines. She understood exactly what Sky meant—how truth could be both freedom and fire. And once lit, it could burn everything down.
She'd been here before. Years ago, in another institution. Another city. Another mistake.
But this wasn't the same.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was Sky.
That evening, Sky didn't go to Ayana's right away.
She wandered through the city park, crunching dry leaves underfoot. Her scarf tugged at her throat in the wind. She walked and walked until the sky turned rose-gold and her thoughts stopped racing.
When she reached Ayana's apartment, she stood outside the door for a full minute before knocking.
Ayana opened it with a worried expression that melted into something softer.
"Hey."
Sky didn't speak. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Ayana's waist, pressing her face to her shoulder.
Ayana held her without hesitation. "I'm here."
Inside, the apartment was warm. A kettle whistled softly. A book lay open on the arm of the couch.
They sat in silence, hands wrapped around untouched mugs of tea.
"I was thinking," Sky said finally. "What if we stopped hiding?"
Ayana didn't move. "You mean… go public?"
"I mean stop living like we're wrong."
Ayana's voice was barely above a whisper. "That's a dangerous thing to want."
Sky looked at her. "But don't you want it, too?"
Ayana met her gaze. "Every second."
"Then why are we so afraid?"
Ayana sighed. "Because once people know, it doesn't belong to just us anymore. They'll twist it. Question it. Use it against us."
Sky swallowed. "I'm tired of being a secret. Even if it's safer."
Ayana reached across the couch and took her hand. "You deserve to be seen. But I need to know you won't be hurt more than you already have."
"I might be," Sky admitted. "But I'll survive. I've survived worse."
Ayana's eyes shimmered. "You're braver than me."
Sky smiled. "Then follow my lead."
The next day, they arrived on campus separately, as always.
But something was different.
After Sky's poetry seminar, as she walked out of the building, Ayana appeared in the hallway. She didn't speak—she just brushed her hand softly against Sky's as she passed.
That tiny gesture sent a ripple through the students around them.
Two girls paused mid-conversation. A guy leaned back in his chair, whispering something to his friend.
Sky kept walking, heart pounding, head high.
Later that afternoon, they sat together at the campus café—outdoors, in view.
Two mugs between them. A shared scone. Sky's hand resting on the table, Ayana's fingers occasionally tracing circles against her skin.
They talked about books. Class. Autumn light on trees.
Nothing scandalous.
Everything true.
Whispers floated, but neither of them looked away.
That night, Ayana stood at the window, watching headlights weave through the city streets.
Sky sat on the floor, sketching words in her journal.
"We crossed a line today," Ayana said softly.
"We drew a new one," Sky replied.
Ayana turned, her voice heavy. "If this costs me my position—"
Sky looked up. "Then we fight."
Ayana moved toward her. "You shouldn't have to fight my battles."
"But I want to," Sky said. "Because you're not just my professor. You're the person I…"
She faltered.
Ayana knelt in front of her, brushing her fingers along Sky's cheek. "You're the person I never thought I'd find. Not in this lifetime. Not with these scars."
Sky leaned into the touch. "We're not broken. We're learning how to hold light without fear."
Ayana whispered, "Say that again."
"We're learning how to hold light."
They kissed—soft and unhurried.
Sky climbed into her lap, straddling her thighs, arms wrapped around her neck. Their mouths moved with intention, with memory, with the ache of waiting too long to be known.
Ayana's hands slid beneath Sky's shirt, fingertips feathering over the curve of her spine. Skin to skin.
Sky shivered.
Not from cold.
From the weight of being loved like this—without rush, without question.
Their clothes fell away like pages turning.
No performance. No shame.
Just breathing.
Just the quiet rhythm of two bodies rediscovering safety.
When they lay together afterward, tangled in sheets, Sky whispered, "If they see us… let them."
Ayana kissed her shoulder. "Then let them see the truth."
On Thursday morning, Ayana posted a quote outside her office door.
It read:
"Let them call it scandal. We will call it courage."
—Unknown
Below it, a small, handwritten note in Sky's script:
We are not afraid.