Authority never arrives quietly.
By morning, it was everywhere.
Not in whispers this time—papers on notice boards, teachers standing in clusters, security posted near corridors that never needed watching before. The campus felt tense, like it was holding its breath.
I noticed it immediately.
So did Rayan.
He didn't sit near me today.
That was the first sign.
The announcement came mid-class.
Both of our names.
Spoken together.
The room went silent.
"Rayan. And… you. Please report to the administrative office."
Every head turned.
This wasn't curiosity anymore. It was judgment.
I stood calmly.
Rayan hesitated.
That hesitation cost him.
We walked separately.
That was intentional.
The corridor felt longer than usual, the distance between us stretched by more than space. I could sense him behind me—tense, conflicted, trying to read the situation before it swallowed him whole.
The office door closed behind us with a final click.
Three people sat across the desk.
Authority.
Unemotional. Observant. Already decided.
"This situation has drawn unnecessary attention," one of them said flatly."Disruptive behavior," another added."Public misconduct," a third concluded.
Their words were careful.
Their meaning wasn't.
"You," one of them said, turning to me, "are being advised to maintain distance."
Advised wasn't a suggestion.
It was a warning.
I nodded once.
Then they turned to Rayan.
"You," they said, "will be monitored."
His shoulders stiffened.
"And any further involvement will be considered defiance."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
Rayan spoke first.
"This isn't her fault."
Every head turned.
I didn't look at him—but I felt it.
Authority leaned forward.
"Then whose is it?"
His jaw tightened.
"Mine."
The word landed hard.
That was his choice.
And it changed everything.
They dismissed me first.
That was deliberate too.
I stood, calm as ever, and walked out without looking back.
Because turning around would've been a mistake.
Outside, the hallway felt colder.
Louder.
People stared openly now.
Rayan emerged minutes later.
His expression was dark.
Controlled.
But there was something else underneath.
Anger.
"They're separating us," he said under his breath.
"They're trying," I corrected.
"This isn't a game anymore," he said. "They'll make you look like the problem."
"They already have," I replied.
That's when he stepped back.
Physically.
Deliberately.
Publicly.
A line drawn in front of everyone watching.
"You should stay away from me," he said.
The words hurt.
The intent did worse.
I met his gaze.
"And you should decide whether you're strong enough to mean that."
His eyes flickered.
But he didn't move closer.
By the end of the day, the damage was complete.
We didn't walk together.
We didn't speak.
We didn't look at each other.
Authority had succeeded.
On the surface.
That night, my phone buzzed again.
A new message.
Unknown number.
He chose himself. You should too.
I locked the screen.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Because now the war wasn't between us.
It was between control and desire.
And authority had just made the first move.