LILLY POV💦
The university halls didn't look any different. Same polished floors, same distant chatter, same warmth in the sunlit arches overhead.
But something had shifted.
It was in the way people moved around me. Some averted their eyes. Others whispered just loud enough. A few watched me openly, like I'd stopped being invisible and started being… dangerous.
All I had done was accept a chance to speak.
And suddenly, I was a threat.
---
The custodial office smelled like bleach and old coffee. I clocked in quietly, tying my apron with practiced fingers. My manager, Mrs. Glenna, barely looked up from her desk.
"They called HR about you," she said flatly.
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"I told them you hadn't missed a single shift. That you do your job. That's all I know." She looked up finally, her sharp brown eyes softening a little. "You're walking a tightrope, Lorenzo. Don't slip."
I nodded, throat tight. "Thank you."
She waved me off. "Get to the science wing. Third floor. Some freshman blew up a beaker. Smells like melted rubber."
Back to work. Like nothing had changed.
---
I scrubbed chemical stains off the lab floor until my fingers ached.
My mind kept drifting to the hearing scheduled for tomorrow. I hadn't been given many details—just a time, a location, and a warning: Prepare a statement if you want one.
A statement.
Something to prove I deserved even a sliver of opportunity.
But how do you speak about your worth when you've spent your life proving it quietly? How do you gather all your invisible struggles and put them into neat little words for people who've never missed a meal?
---
I ducked into the student library on my break, stealing twenty quiet minutes in the corner with a notebook I'd found in the donation pile. It still smelled like paper and forgotten dreams.
My name is Lilly Lorenzo, I wrote.
I am not a student. I clean the classrooms you learn in. I mop the floors where you walk. I know this university better than anyone who sits on the board because I've seen it from underneath.
That felt right. Real. I kept going.
I didn't choose to leave school. Life chose for me. When my little brother couldn't afford his school fees, I dropped out so he didn't have to. When my mother got sick, I worked extra shifts to keep our lights on.
I hesitated, then underlined:
I'm not asking for charity. I'm asking for a chance.
My hands were shaking. But I kept writing.
---
Later that evening, I cleaned the art hall alone. The sunlight slanted through stained glass, painting the marble floor in shades of red and gold. I paused at a large canvas leaning against the wall—unfinished. Angry brushstrokes, raw color. Something about it reminded me of myself.
That's when I heard the footsteps.
I didn't look up.
"You're not supposed to be in here after hours," I said, voice low.
"I could say the same about you," Luca replied.
He stood a few feet away, hair tousled like he'd run his hands through it too many times. No blazer tonight—just a black shirt, sleeves rolled, vulnerability barely masked behind that usual arrogance.
"You shouldn't be here," I said again.
"I know," he replied. "But I needed to know if you're okay."
I turned to face him. "Why do you care?"
His jaw flexed. "Because I do."
"That's not enough," I whispered.
A beat passed. "Then tell me what is."
"I want the truth," I said. "No games. No pity. Why are you really helping me?"
He looked away for a moment, then back at me. "Because I'm tired of watching people like Samantha pretend this place belongs only to them. Because you walked in with nothing and still made me look twice."
I didn't respond. I didn't trust myself to.
Instead, I asked the question that had been eating me alive.
"Do you think I have a chance tomorrow?"
He didn't flinch. "No."
The word hit me like a slap. But he wasn't done.
"You don't have a chance if you try to sound like them," he continued. "Don't speak their language. Speak yours. Make them uncomfortable."
I blinked.
Luca stepped closer, his voice lower now.
"Tell them what it feels like to clean up after people who think they're better than you. Make them see you."
Something twisted in my chest.
Maybe it was hope.
Maybe it was rage.
Maybe both.
---
That night
I sat on the floor of my apartment, notebook open in my lap, my brother asleep beside me on the couch. Our little space smelled like onions and laundry soap.
I re-read my statement, then tore it out and rewrote the whole thing.
This time, I didn't hold back.
---
The next morning
I wore my cleanest shirt. Pulled my curls back. No makeup—just courage and a deep breath.
The hearing room was smaller than I imagined. Cold. A panel of four administrators sat behind a long table. Professor Torres sat at the end, her face unreadable. Vice Dean Hawkins sat in the center, flanked by two others I didn't recognize.
A chair waited in the middle of the room like a spotlight.
I sat down slowly.
"Miss Lorenzo," Hawkins began, "you've been granted ten minutes. Speak freely."
I opened my notebook—and paused.
Then I closed it.
And spoke from memory.
"My name is Lilly Lorenzo. I work as a cleaner at this university. I've worked here for almost two years. I know the sound of this campus at 4 a.m., when no one's watching. I know which classrooms get trashed, and which professors leave their notes behind."
I looked up.
"And I know that opportunity rarely knocks twice for people like me."
I saw Torres shift slightly. One of the other panelists leaned forward.
"I didn't leave school because I failed. I left because I chose family over education. I chose survival over comfort. That's what I do every day."
I inhaled sharply.
"I've read the mission statement of this university. It says you support 'growth, excellence, and equity.' If that's true, then this grant shouldn't go to the most polished applicant. It should go to someone who knows what it means to fight."
I locked eyes with Hawkins.
"I'm not here to impress you. I'm here to remind you that potential doesn't always wear a name tag. Sometimes, it wears a uniform."
Silence followed.
Then Torres cleared her throat. "Thank you, Miss Lorenzo. We'll notify you of our decision within the week."
I stood slowly.
And walked out with my head held high.
---
Outside, I sat on the bench near the chapel steps, letting the cold air sting my skin.
The hearing was over.
Now came the waiting.
A shadow fell across me. Luca sat down beside me without a word.
He didn't ask how it went.
He just held out a paper cup of hot chocolate.
"I figured you'd need something warm," he said.
I took it.
And for the first time in weeks, I smiled.
Not because I felt safe.
But because I felt seen.