The week marched on with the rhythm of bells and footsteps, of lectures and laughter Anaya was rarely included in. She tried to sink into routine, but routine refused her. Even silence seemed to highlight her absence.
Still, when Professor Darius announced their next Philosophy exercise, curiosity tugged at her.
"We will begin practical application," he declared, chalk tapping the board. His voice carried the gravity of centuries, echoing in the vaulted chamber. "The Gifted must learn not only to see their futures but to share them. A glimpse is not private—it bleeds into community, influences choice. Today, you will attempt projection."
A murmur ran through the room. Projection.
Anaya scribbled in her notebook, though her pulse raced.
"Each of you will pair off," Darius continued, "and focus. Show your partner what you have seen. Let them witness it. Let them test the truth of it against their own."
Pairs formed quickly. Laughter and whispers filled the hall as chairs scraped across stone.
Anaya froze. No one turned toward her.
At the edge of her vision, Mira's hand shot up. "Professor, we're odd-numbered."
Darius adjusted his spectacles. His eyes drifted across the room, passing over Anaya once, twice, before narrowing. "Miss Sharma. You will join Miss Varma."
Mira's lips curved, though not in joy. "Of course."
They sat across from each other. The tension was a wire drawn taut.
Mira leaned forward gracefully, resting her chin on her palm. "Try not to fall asleep. Some of us actually have something to show."
Anaya clenched her fists under the desk. "Fine. Go ahead."
Mira inhaled, closing her eyes. The air between them grew charged.
Then Anaya felt it—like a ripple brushing across her skin. Images unfurled in the space behind her eyelids though she hadn't closed them: Mira draped in silks, surrounded by applause, her name etched into a glowing plaque beneath the title Ambassador. Crowds bowed. Leaders extended hands. She radiated triumph.
The vision pulsed with power. Anaya could almost taste the champagne, hear the ovation.
Then Mira opened her eyes, smirking. "Well? Impressive, isn't it?"
The applause still echoed faintly in Anaya's ears. She swallowed. "It's… clear."
"Of course it is." Mira tilted her head. "Now, your turn."
Anaya's mouth went dry. "I can't—"
"Oh, but you must." Mira's voice dripped with mock sweetness. "Unless you want the whole class to see you're empty."
Eyes were already on them. Whispers prickled the air.
Darius cleared his throat. "Miss Sharma, attempt it. Even absence has form."
Her hands trembled. She closed her eyes, reaching inward—toward nothing.
But then Mira's hand brushed hers across the desk. Just for a second. Just enough.
The world convulsed.
The ambassador's vision shattered.
Anaya gasped as the applause warped into screams. The silks stained dark. Mira stood not in a hall of diplomacy but in smoke, rubble falling around her. Fire raged at her back. Her plaque lay cracked on the ground, her title burned away. She reached out—not for adoration, but for help.
The image flickered violently, alternating between triumph and ruin, until both collapsed into darkness.
Anaya jerked her hand back. Her chair scraped against stone.
Mira's eyes were wide, horror-struck. She clutched her palm as though burned.
The room erupted.
"What happened—?""Did you see that?""Her glimpse changed—impossible—"
Professor Darius slammed his book shut. "Silence!" His voice thundered.
But silence couldn't erase what had been seen.
Mira's chest heaved. "You—" Her finger stabbed toward Anaya, trembling. "You broke it. You broke me."
Anaya's throat constricted. "I didn't— I didn't mean—"
Darius' gaze cut into her, sharp as glass. "Miss Sharma. Stay after class."
The remainder of the exercise collapsed into chaos. Students whispered furiously, casting glances between Anaya and Mira. Some looked afraid, others fascinated.
Rafael leaned close as the bell rang. His voice was low. "You didn't break her. You bent it. There's a difference."
Anaya couldn't respond. Her mouth was ash.
When the room emptied, Darius remained by the window, his back to her. "Do you understand what you've done?"
"No," Anaya whispered.
He turned slowly. His eyes gleamed, not with anger, but with something more dangerous—curiosity. "Glimpses are not fragile. They are threads woven into destiny itself. To change one is to defy the loom."
"I didn't try—"
"That," Darius said sharply, "is what terrifies me."
Anaya's knees felt weak.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Go. The Headmistress will decide how to proceed."
The halls swarmed with whispers. Mira didn't speak to her, but her silence was louder than any insult. Rumor grew hydra-headed: Anaya was cursed, Anaya was a fraud, Anaya was dangerous.
She skipped dinner, retreating to the dormitory.
The empty second bed mocked her. She curled on her mattress, staring at the ceiling until shadows swallowed the room.
The image replayed endlessly in her mind: Mira's future collapsing, flames devouring triumph.
Her chest ached. She pressed the locket hard into her skin. "What am I?" she whispered.
This time, the silence didn't feel empty.
It felt like something listening.
And for the first time, she realized: her "nothingness" wasn't lack. It was intrusion. Not a blank page—an eraser, a storm.
She could unmake. She could remake.
And if that was true, then no one at St. Crescent—not Mira, not Darius, not even the Headmistress—was safe from the fracture she carried inside her.