Chapter 1 – The Girl Who Didn't Speak
Sky sat near the back of the lecture hall, her body curled inward like a question with no answer.
She kept her hood up, her bag pressed against her side like a barrier. The notebook on her lap was mostly blank except for a few shaky lines. Her pen twitched between her fingers, moving just enough to convince anyone glancing her way that she was taking notes.
But she wasn't.
She was surviving.
The room buzzed with low conversation—some students scrolling on their phones, others whispering and laughing softly between themselves. The lecture hadn't started yet, but the weight of the space already made Sky's chest tighten. She hated rooms like this. Too many eyes. Too many ways to be misread.
At twenty-two, Sky had mastered the art of being invisible. It wasn't hard once you stopped speaking.
It was safer that way.
At the front of the room stood Ayana Nyaga—tall, confident, poised. A woman who wore elegance like armor and spoke with clarity that demanded attention, not applause.
She wasn't like the other professors.
There was something grounded in her—something still.
When Ayana began to speak, the room hushed. Her voice carried, not because it was loud, but because it didn't need to be.
"Good morning. I hope you all remembered to read Chapter Four," she said, lips curling into a dry smile. "If not, this next hour will be... enlightening."
A few students laughed. Others looked away, guilty.
Sky looked down. She had read it twice.
Not because she wanted to impress anyone. But because books didn't ask her who she was.
Ayana continued, her voice like water—steady, clear, occasionally sharp enough to cut. Sky liked listening to her. Not in the way others did. Not with admiration or infatuation. But with safety. Something about her made Sky feel... less breakable.
But today was different.
Ayana's eyes scanned the room, landing briefly on each face.
Then, they paused.
On her.
On Sky.
A second too long. A flicker too deep.
Sky froze. Her throat tightened. She didn't look away, not immediately—but when she did, her heart was already thudding hard in her chest.
She pulled her hood lower, stared harder at her notes.
She couldn't tell what Ayana had seen. Or if she'd seen anything at all.
When class ended, Sky moved quickly. She always did. Get up, pack, leave. Before anyone could speak to her. Before they remembered she was there.
But today, just as she stepped toward the door, that voice returned—calm, clear, direct.
"You're Sky, right?"
Sky stopped.
Everything in her stilled, as if the air itself had paused.
She turned slowly, uncertain, eyes wide beneath her hood.
Ayana stood near the window, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk. Her expression was soft—not demanding, not curious. Just... open.
"Yes," Sky said finally, her voice small.
Ayana nodded once. "I've seen you in the Tuesday sessions too. You always sit near the back."
Sky didn't answer.
"I just wanted to say—I like your silence."
Sky blinked. "You... like it?"
Ayana's smile was small. Thoughtful. "Most people fill silence with noise. But you let it breathe."
Sky didn't know what to say. No one had ever described her absence as something graceful. Usually it was an annoyance. A red flag. A failure.
"Thank you," she mumbled.
Ayana nodded. "If you ever want to stay after class... talk, ask something, or just sit—I'm usually around."
Sky nodded quickly. "Okay."
It came out too fast. Too eager. She felt heat climb up her neck.
She turned and left before Ayana could say more.
Outside, the sky was grey and moody. Perfect for disappearing.
Sky walked across the quad, shoulders hunched. Her mind replayed the moment over and over.
You're Sky, right?
It wasn't the question itself.
It was the way Ayana said it—like it belonged to her.
Sky wasn't her birth name. It was the name she chose. Quietly. In the dark. A name that made her feel like there was still something above her, even when everything else had fallen away.
Most people ignored it. Laughed. Misgendered her on purpose. Called her what was easy.
But Ayana hadn't hesitated.
That night, Sky sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie still on. Her roommate was out. The quiet of the room was sharp but comforting.
She pulled out an old notebook—the one she hadn't dared open in months.
Inside were pages of writing. Some angry. Some desperate. Most unfinished.
She flipped to a new page. Her pen hovered.
Then, slowly, she wrote:
"Today, someone saw me."
The words weren't elegant. They weren't poetic. But they were true.
And that was enough.