The classroom was warm—not from the sun, which barely filtered through thick curtains, but from the hum of bodies and adolescence. Fans whirred overhead, barely cutting the heat.
Samantha stood before the whiteboard, chalk between slender fingers, writing out the day's topic in careful cursive: "Descriptive writing: Showing, not telling."
Most of Form Four Lily leaned in, notebooks open, pencils tapping. A few whispered, passed folded notes, and exchanged sidelong glances—cheeky, bright-eyed.
"Teacher," one giggled, "if we describe your handwriting, can we say it's soft and sexy?"
Samantha blinked, startled—but smiled gently. "Only if you can justify that adjective with imagery."
The class erupted.
Another piped up, "Miss Lim, you have very elegant fingers. Like ballerina fingers. Do ballerinas teach grammar?"
"Your metaphors are getting ambitious," Samantha said, cheeks warming.
The teasing started innocently enough.
"Miss Lim," Anisa grinned from the back row, "do you get men falling at your feet with that voice? It's so… velvety."
Laughter burst across the room.
Samantha, mid-sentence, paused and gave a flustered laugh. "I suppose it's helpful for reading Shakespeare out loud. Not so much for issuing detention slips."
Another voice chimed in, "Your handwriting's too graceful. Like you're writing love letters."
More giggles. Some mimed swooning. Someone tried to whistle.
Samantha smiled—tightly this time. "I think that's enough praise. I'm flattered, but maybe we could focus on metaphors in literature, not about me?"
Nadra didn't laugh.
She sat stone still, her hand clenched around her pen, eyes locked on Samantha—not in amusement, but in simmering quiet.
The warmth in her chest twisted into something sharp. It wasn't about the teasing—it was that they saw Samantha too.
The way she stood there, brushing chalk dust from her palm. The way her blouse shifted when she moved. The way her voice, soft and low, seemed to reach everyone.
Except Nadra.
She'd memorized the slope of Samantha's shoulders, the texture of her voice when she read poetry, the way she blinked when surprised. To Nadra, those details were sacred. Private.
And now they were thrown around like confetti, toyed with, laughed over.
Her stomach tightened. Her notebook page was blank, but her mind was loud. Why are they looking at her like that? Do they even understand what they're seeing?
Samantha turned back to the board, cheeks still tinged with color. Her voice steadied, but Nadra saw the flicker—an inward shift, like she'd tucked something away.
Nadra's heart hurt in a way she couldn't name. Like being close enough to touch a candle—but only watching others bask in its glow.
Samantha.
She watched the way Samantha tucked her hair behind her ear, the subtle bend of her wrist, the easy way she leaned over a student's desk to explain a sentence. Every movement was quiet, unassuming. And yet to Nadra, the entire room vanished each time Samantha looked in her direction.
No one had noticed—not even her friends—that Nadra hadn't cracked a joke in three days. When asked about it, she gave vague shrugs, claimed tiredness, mentioned a headache. But the truth sat too close to the skin.
It felt like a fever. It felt like silence pressed against want.
Samantha, meanwhile, remained professional and gentle. Her eyes scanned the room with genuine curiosity. Occasionally she'd glance Nadra's way—not long, not pointed. But when their eyes met, Nadra's stomach pulled taut like a thread tugged from the inside.
Just before the bell, Samantha clapped her hands gently.
"One quick announcement before you go." She paused, smiling. "We've received approval for next month's school trip. It'll be an overnight visit to the National Museum and surrounding sites. Details will be handed out next week—but yes, there will be bunk beds and late-night whispering involved, I'm sure."
The room exploded.
Samantha laughed, adjusting her glasses. "I said whispering, not shrieking. Behave yourselves, please."
Some girls cheered, others already began planning who they'd share bunks with, snacks to sneak in, outfits to wear.
Nadra didn't speak.
She sat back, arms crossed, pretending indifference. After a beat, she picked up her pen and began to write—nothing urgent, just loops and scratches, an attempt to seem occupied.
But her mind was already spinning—too many possibilities, too many hours in close quarters, too many ways Samantha might sit cross-legged on a sleeping bag, hair undone from a long day, laughing softly at something unimportant.
And Nadra already knew—her bunkmates wouldn't be the problem.
It was the way she'd find herself watching Samantha in the dim light, in moments no one else noticed.
And it was how those moments would follow her long after the lights went out.