The amber glow of her desk lamp felt worlds away from the sun-drenched classroom of her memory. That afternoon remained etched in her mind, far sharper than the rough, unfinished brickwork of her current bedroom.
She and Simon had been huddled over their desks, the air between them thin enough to feel the radiating warmth of his skin. Nazma drew a shallow, jagged breath, the dry scent of whiteboard markers stinging her nostrils.
Her pen scratched frantically against paper, a desperate attempt to drown out the rhythmic thumping in her chest that felt loud enough for the whole room to hear.
"How far along are you, Simon?" she murmured, her voice barely a thread in the air.
"Miles to go."
"Oh. I'm nearly there."
Simon stood, thescreech of his chair's legs against the floor echoing in the quiet room.
He leaned over beside her, his presence so close that his shadow fell over her notes. Nazma kept her gaze locked on her own handwriting, her face flushing as the world narrowed down to the faint smell of his soap and the warmth of his presence. She clung to his old promises like a lifeline, remembering the way he used to swear he'd follow her to the ends of the earth.
The spell broke when Hyto loomed over them, his voice a low, raspy drawl that sounded like gravel grinding together. He crowded their space, the bitter aura of outdoor sweat following him like a storm front.
"Well, well... just the two of you?" Hyto smirked, his bulging eyes darting between them.
"So what if it is?" she countered, her tone flat, her fingers tightening around her pen until her knuckles turned white. She refused to give someone like Hyto the satisfaction of seeing her composure crumble.
Nazma didn't flinch, though her pulse spiked when she spotted Harvey's silhouette through the window.
Simon played it cool, waiting for Hyto to mumble a half-hearted goodbye before sauntering off.
A heavy silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the mocking, metallic tick-tick-tick of the wall clock. Simon drifted toward the teacher's desk, his eyes lingering on a row of dates on the calendar.
Nazma's brow furrowed, and she tried to pull her jaw upward toward her cheeks. Her tongue lifted, twitching in the air. Then, her tongue finally began to speak. "Where are you headed for middle school?" Nazma asked, the words feeling like lead in her mouth.
Simon stared down at his black shoes—"DB Academy."
Nazma felt the blow land, a cold knot tightening in her stomach, but she kept her expression unreadable. "I thought... I thought we were in this together," she said, her voice at a loss for words.
"I can't," Simon muttered, his gaze fixed on the floor. "The exit exam is tough."
Nazma watched him, and the pedestal she'd built for him began to crack and splinter.
Coward, she thought, a sharp, icy clarity taking root in her soul. The boy who had promised her the stars was folding at the first sign of a climb.
Nazma quickly changed the subject to break the tension.
"I don't get why everyone keeps saying your voice changed," she complained. "It sounds exactly the same to me."
"I know, right? People just love to talk," Simon replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Simon's pulse, however, was anything but steady. He kept his head down, but his mind was a riot of static. She noticed, he thought, a surge of heat blooming behind his ears because she'd actually picked up on the deepening of his voice. He masked his thrill with a cynical edge, brushing it off with a snarky comment, but internally, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
She's actually paying attention, he realized, his pride swelling. Usually, she was a closed book, but today she had looked right at him, seeing a version of him that no one else bothered to notice.
When Nazma finally whispered, "Walk me home, Simon?" he felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets to kill the tremor in his fingers. "Uh... yeah, sure," he managed, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to sound like he didn't care.
His ears burned a vivid crimson, a telltale sign of the heat rushing to his face. As they stepped out, the hallway seemed to stretch into infinity, the linoleum floors shimmering under the honey-thick light of the setting sun. Keep it together, don't smile, he told himself, biting his inner cheek to suppress a grin that felt like it might split his face.
Back in the present, Nazma stood before her house, her fingers tightening around the AB College brochure until the paper groaned.
That memory of Simon's retreat didn't make her feel small; it made her feel certain.
He had walked back on every grand word he'd used to win her over. He was the one who had spent months chasing her, yet when she finally stepped aside to let him in, he had lacked the nerve to cross the threshold.
Nazma took a long, steadying breath, the cool night air clearing the lingering scent of the past from her lungs. She wasn't mourning a loss; she was fueling a fire. If Simon was too intimidated by the mountain, she would scale it solo.
She retreated into her house. The flickering lamp threw a steady light over her textbooks, the crisp smell of new paper inviting her back to the grind. The memory of Simon was no longer a weight, but a reminder of why she had to be twice as fast and twice as sharp.
She took up her pen, the cold plastic familiar in her grip.
Every equation solved was a mile closer to a world of her own making. She was ready for the results, ready for the toil, and ready to take the win. Simon had stepped out of the race, but Nazma was just hitting her stride.