The school's annual fashion showcase was a big deal. Not just another extracurricular affair, but a glittering event that drew parents, alumni, and sometimes even a few scouts from local fashion outlets. It was a stage, a spotlight, and a chance to be seen. And this year, Amina had been handpicked by the Home Economics department to design a piece for the runway.
It had been weeks of stolen moments, late afternoons in the sewing lab, and quiet concentration during breaks. Amina had poured herself into it—choosing soft lilac fabric, sketching, cutting, and sewing with a delicate precision. The dress was modest, flowing, with intricate embroidery she'd taught herself through YouTube tutorials. It was hers—entirely.
On the morning of the showcase, Amina woke up early despite barely sleeping. Her stomach fluttered with both excitement and dread. She packed her garment carefully in a plastic cover and left for school with Derin, who had been oddly quiet that morning.
The school grounds buzzed with energy. Students rushed between classrooms and the multipurpose hall, where the event would be held. Parents arrived in their Sunday best, phones ready for pictures. Teachers barked instructions over the noise, their voices swallowed in the general chaos.
Amina dropped off her dress backstage before heading to the girls' changing room to freshen up. The showcase was set to begin at noon, and the student models were already being assigned their outfits.
When she returned to check on her dress half an hour before the event, her heart nearly stopped.
It was ruined.
The bodice had been slashed in two places, jagged lines running across the embroidery. A red stain—paint, not dye—sprawled across the lower half like blood. The entire skirt was wrinkled and shoved into a corner.
She stared, numb.
No. No. No.
Amina's knees buckled slightly as she knelt before the dress, her hands trembling as she touched the damage. Whispers swirled around her. A few girls giggled. One muttered, "Shame. That was her big moment."
She didn't have to guess who had done it. Derin had made several passive-aggressive comments about how "some people get lucky breaks for doing little," and just yesterday, Amina had caught her lingering near the fashion lab.
Tears welled up. Not now. Not in front of them.
She stood and backed into the corridor, heart pounding, lungs aching. She didn't know where she was going until she bumped into someone—hard.
"Careful," a familiar voice said.
Kunle.
He looked at her, really looked, and his brows drew together. "What happened?"
Amina tried to shake her head, to walk past him, but he caught her arm—not roughly, just firm enough to stop her.
"Tell me."
Her voice broke. "My dress... it's ruined. They ruined it. I worked so hard."
He didn't ask who. He just said, "Come. Show me."
Backstage, he surveyed the damage. He was quiet for a moment. Then he turned to her. "We don't have time to cry. Do you want to fix it?"
Amina nodded, unsure how.
Kunle was already moving. "Wait here."
Ten minutes later, he returned with needle, thread, spare fabric from the lab, and a portable ironing set. "I told one of the teachers someone messed up their showcase piece. They opened the store for me."
They worked together in a corner of the hall, hidden by curtains. Kunle's hands were steady. Amina's hands fumbled but steadied as they went on. The stain couldn't be removed, but they layered tulle over the lower half to hide it. The bodice—well, they repinned the top, adjusted the straps, added lace from leftover material.
It wasn't the same dress, but it was still hers.
As they finished, someone crouched beside them.
"Need help?"
It was Idris.
Amina blinked. She'd seen him earlier in the hall talking to a boy who was modeling, but she hadn't expected him to notice her.
"I saw you guys working and figured it wasn't a good sign," he said, offering a pin cushion and some decorative buttons. "These might help.
She smiled, surprised. "Thank you."
He didn't say much else, just held the curtain open for her when it was time.
Her model, a petite girl from SS1, changed into the repaired dress. The makeup team touched up her face. Amina stood to the side, clutching her hands, heart thudding in her ears.
Mrs. Badmus was seated in the front row, smiling proudly as Derin's piece walked past. When Amina's model came out, the hall quieted.
It wasn't the most extravagant outfit. But it flowed. The colors shimmered gently. The lace moved with the wind. It looked soft, yet bold. Even the hasty buttons Idris suggested gave it a charm.
People clapped.
Amina exhaled.
One of the judges leaned over to another and whispered, then turned to address the crowd. "This next piece was a creative recovery. An example of what you do when things go wrong. We don't always know what happened backstage, but whoever made this? You should be proud."
Amina didn't win, but she didn't care.
After the show, Kunle stood beside her with his hands in his pockets. "You didn't fall apart. That's something."
Amina looked at him. "Thank you. For helping me."
He shrugged. "Don't mention it."
From across the courtyard, Idris caught her eye. He lifted a hand in a small wave, then turned to leave with his friends.
And in that moment, Amina didn't feel small. Not invisible. Not ruined.
She felt seen.
And that, for now, was enough.