The next morning arrives in a blur.
No dreams. No nightmares.
Just that strange stillness that follows too much crying.
I move through the motions steady—but unsure.
The shower is too hot, but I don't adjust it.
I just stand there, letting it scald the skin I can't feel anyway.
Grief sits in the steam with me—
quiet, heavy, unbothered.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged,
like even it refuses to look at me today.
I pull on my hoodie.
Hiding feels easier.
Then I grab my keys.
Outside, the air is thick and warm—
the kind that clings to your skin before the sun even rises.
The street is already alive.
Vendors setting up beneath worn umbrellas.
A Sauti Sol song drifting from a nearby Safaricom shop,
cutting through the hush of the ocean breeze.
I walk through it all in silence.
The school is about a thirty-minute walk from here.
Every step feels both too fast and too slow.
My mother would've been proud of me.
The echo of everything she used to say rings in my head:
Stand tall, Zuri. Chin up. Make them see you.
For a moment, I imagine her face.
Wishing she could've seen this.
Wishing I didn't have to do it without her.
I keep walking.
Campus is exactly how I pictured it—
palm trees lining sandy walkways,
first-years pretending to be more confident than they are,
girls with matching tote bags.
Fourth-years toss out directions like seasoned guides
who've survived the tide.
I keep my head down,
weaving past it all
until I reach the hallway marked Hall B31 where our first class, Law 101, is supposed to be held.
The chatter thickens near the door.
Fragments of conversation bounce between the walls—
laughter, names being asked and repeated.
I slip inside and move toward the front.
Not dead center—too exposed.
I aim for the far-left corner.
The one that feels safest.
The one where I'll be invisible.
I plug in my earphones.
Pull out my notebook.
Stare at my phone—
not really doing anything, just avoiding everything.
Around me, the other freshmen are bonding—
swapping numbers, snapping selfies,
trading nervous excitement like candy.
Meanwhile, I'm just here…
wondering.
Wondering if I should've come later, just to skip all this awkward energy.
Wondering if I even belong.
Then the door opens.
Heads turn.
Voices falter.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence.
I glance toward the entrance and freeze.
Haim is standing there like a perfectly timed storm.
Slate grey trousers. Crisp white shirt.
Sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing hands stronger than I remembered.
Hair along his forearms catching the light, like it has no business being that soft.
Knuckles sharp. Defined.
Not gentle. Not forgettable.
Maybe last night, I was too wrapped in grief to notice
the way he's built like control.
A silver watch glints at his wrist.
He looks fresh. Calm. Collected.
Untouched by the chaos he just walked into.
My heart forgets how to beat.
My hands tremble.
The pen slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor.
I suck in a breath—sharp and jagged
silently cursing the universe for its cruelty.
Then his voice slices through the tension—
still smooth, but now deliberate.
Less late-night radio,
more courtroom precision like the warmth from the café was curated.
"Good morning. My name is Mr. Maloba.
Welcome to Law 101."
And just like that, it hits me.
The H. in H. Maloba on the timetable...
It stands for Haim.
He moves with quiet confidence,
placing a copy of The Art of War on the podium and tapping it once like it's a habit.
Like control is something he carries in his fingertips.
I watch the way his shoulders move so effortlessly.
I don't want to be impressed but damn.
He begins, voice steady and composed:
"Today, I'll be taking you through the foundational principles of legal thought, structure, and application."
A dimple flashes.
Brief. Infuriating.
"Law," he continues,
"isn't about memorization.
It's mindset.
Perspective.
Strategy."
Another tap on the book measured. Soft. Intentional.
"This isn't on your syllabus," he adds, scanning the room,
"but I recommend it.
Because law… law is war.
Not the loud kind.
The silent kind."
His gaze sweeps across the classroom.
And then it lands on me.
For a moment, the room stills.
A flicker of surprise crosses his face barely there,
but I catch it.
A pause in the rhythm.
A crease in control.
My lungs forget how to work.
Heat blooms in my chest, tight and traitorous.
We lock eyes
not long, not obvious—
just enough to feel like something yesterday night is being rewritten.
Then, just as quickly,
he blinks the moment away.
His face smooths.
Voice, unfaltering.
Body language: professional.
"Let's begin," he says, turning from me like nothing happened.
"Tell me — what is justice?"
A few hands shoot up.
A girl in the front row answers,
"Justice is fairness. When everyone gets what they deserve."
He nods once.
"Interesting. Anyone disagree?"
Another student chimes in,
"Fairness is subjective. What I think is fair might not match the law."
"Exactly," he says, words clean and sharp.
"Law and justice aren't always the same. That's your first lesson maybe your hardest."
He turns to the board and writes in bold, deliberate strokes:
Law ≠ Justice
The words land like lived truths sharp and unforgiving.
"The law is a system," he says, voice steady.
"Justice is a concept.
They often dance—"
He pauses.
"—but don't always hold hands."
Another pause.
This one lingers.
"Your job is to question everything.
Challenge definitions.
Understand power.
And more importantly…"
His eyes sweep the room pause again.
Longer this time.
"…know when to stay silent—
and when to speak."
A hush falls over the room.
Like everyone's holding their breath—
unsure whether to be inspired or terrified.
My cheeks flush.
I close my eyes.
And curse ever stepping foot into Eastshore.
He turns back to the board, continuing the lecture
like he didn't just shake the ground beneath us.
But I'm not listening anymore. Not really.
My body's in this classroom.
But my mind is still caught in that pause the weight of it, the echo.
The way his eyes had found mine—
steady, unreadable.
I look down, pretending to take notes.
But my fingers don't move.
Of all the classrooms…
of all the professors…
the universe led me to him first in a café
and now here in his class, in his orbit?
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to ground myself. It doesn't work.
Around me, students are nodding, scribbling, asking questions I don't hear. The class is alive with first-day energy, and I'm here—a ghost in the corner seat, caught in a storm only I can feel.
I blink hard. I'm emotionally beat—sad, but I can't even name why. I just know I can't let myself sink again. Not here.
Then I feel his glance toward my side of the room. His eyes land on me—
and hold.
Just for a second. The kind that asks a question without words.
Did he recognize the weight on my face? Or am I just hoping he would?
I shift in my seat:
Get a grip, Zuri.
Like he can sense it's all too much, he closes the class.
"That's enough for today," he says.
"We'll continue with legal systems and schools of thought next class."
Chairs scrape. Bags zip. The room stirs back to life.
I stay seated a moment longer—
Just long enough to gather the pieces of myself he somehow scattered.