The fracture hung over the Academy like storm clouds.
By morning, whispers had swelled into a roar that chased Anaya through corridors and courtyards. Wherever she walked, voices hushed only to rise again after she passed, words curling like smoke.
"She touched Mira—""Her glimpse collapsed—""Can you imagine, your destiny breaking in front of everyone?""They say the fire was so real Mira could feel the heat."
Anaya kept her eyes on the ground, shoulders hunched beneath her blazer. The stone floors echoed each hurried step, but she felt less like a girl and more like a rumor wearing shoes.
When she entered the cafeteria, conversations faltered. Dozens of heads turned. A second later, spoons clattered again and voices resumed, louder than necessary. She carried her tray to her usual corner, but this time even Rafael wasn't there yet.
Mira sat in the center of the room, ringed by loyal satellites. A bandage wrapped her wrist, though Anaya doubted it needed one. Her laughter rose above the din, sharp and glittering. "They'll have to put her somewhere safe," Mira was saying loudly enough for half the hall to hear. "Before she ruins anyone else."
Anaya lowered her eyes, heat crawling up her neck.
The tray rattled when Rafael slid across from her. He set his own down with deliberate force, drawing attention. "Morning," he said brightly, as though nothing were wrong.
"You shouldn't sit here," she whispered.
His grin was easy. "And let them think I'm afraid of you? No chance."
She risked a glance. Half the room watched them, forks suspended, waiting for Rafael to flinch. He didn't. He bit into an apple with exaggerated cheer, juice dripping down his chin.
Mira's voice cut through again. "Maybe she'll fracture you next, Montoya. Then you'll know what it feels like to lose everything."
Rafael swallowed loudly. "Or maybe she'll fix me," he called back. "Wouldn't that be a miracle?"
Laughter rippled through the room—not cruel this time, but surprised, uncertain. Mira's smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
Anaya wanted to disappear under the table. Instead, she whispered fiercely, "Don't provoke her. You'll only make it worse."
He shrugged. "Worse is relative. At least you're not alone."
The words lodged in her chest like a seed.
Classes were no refuge. Professors carried on with lectures, but their eyes flicked toward Anaya more often now, weighing her, measuring. In History, Mr. Tolland stumbled over her name as though unsure whether to speak it at all.
In Philosophy, Professor Darius announced they'd postpone projection exercises indefinitely. His gaze swept the room but lingered on Anaya. She shrank under the weight of it.
Afterward, students crowded the halls. Some whispered as she passed. Others asked outright.
"Can you really change glimpses?""Do it to me! Just touch me once—I want to see if I can be something else.""What did it feel like? Breaking Mira?"
She pushed through, muttering no, no, no, until she burst into the open air of the courtyard. The autumn wind bit at her cheeks, sharp and cleansing.
Rafael caught up minutes later, out of breath. "You need to stop running," he said.
"I can't breathe in there," she snapped. "They look at me like I'm poison or a miracle, and I'm neither."
He studied her for a long moment. "Maybe you're both."
The faculty convened in whispers too. Anaya heard fragments when she passed the staff wing.
"…not in the ledger—""…anomaly dangerous—""…Headmistress insists observation, not isolation."
The words knotted in her stomach. Observation. Like she was an experiment.
She retreated to the library again, sanctuary of dust and ink. But even there, peace was fractured.
A girl appeared at her table one evening—a small figure with ink-stained fingers and dark hair pulled into a messy bun. She carried three books, dropping them with a thud.
"You're Anaya." Not a question.
Anaya tensed. "Yes."
"I'm Leila." The girl plopped into the chair. "Don't mind Mira. She only hates what she can't control."
Anaya blinked. "Why are you talking to me?"
Leila smirked. "Because I like broken things. They're more interesting than shiny ones."
Before Anaya could reply, Leila opened her books and began scribbling notes furiously, humming under her breath. It was the first time another student had sought her out since the fracture.
Later that week, a tall boy from Nairobi named Kato asked to sit with her in Mathematics. "People think you're dangerous," he said matter-of-factly, "but danger is useful. Keeps others honest."
Soon, a small orbit began forming—curious ones, rebels, outsiders. They didn't fawn, didn't fear. They simply stayed.
Mira noticed. Her smile sharpened into a blade.
One evening, Anaya returned to the dormitory to find a note slipped under her door.
Stay away from us. Or we'll make you disappear.
The handwriting was elegant, looping. No signature was needed.
Her hands shook as she crumpled it. Mira's campaign had shifted from whispers to threats.
But when she sat on her bed, staring at the shadows pooling across the floor, another thought rose unbidden. Disappear? I'm already halfway there.
The chandeliers flickered again, though no wind stirred.
The Headmistress summoned her a few days later.
The office was a cathedral of books and portraits. Tall windows spilled pale light onto carpets embroidered with constellations.
Headmistress Veyra stood at the hearth, hands clasped behind her back. Her silver hair gleamed like moonlight, and her eyes were cold clarity.
"Miss Sharma," she said. "You've caused quite a stir."
Anaya's mouth was dry. "I didn't mean to—"
"Intent is irrelevant." Veyra's gaze pinned her. "The fact remains: you fractured a glimpse. That has never been recorded in our history."
Anaya twisted her hands. "Does that mean I'll be expelled?"
A faint smile touched Veyra's lips. "On the contrary. You will stay. But you must understand—your presence is… delicate. The Academy survives on order. You are disorder."
Anaya swallowed hard. "Then why keep me?"
"Because disorder, Miss Sharma, can be more revealing than order ever could. You may yet teach us what destiny means."
The words offered no comfort. They felt like chains disguised as curiosity.
By the week's end, the Academy was split. Some avoided Anaya as though she carried plague. Others circled her like moths to fire, daring one another to brush close, to see if their glimpses would bend.
Rafael never wavered. He sat with her at meals, walked beside her in halls, challenged Mira's barbs with jokes sharp enough to draw laughter. His loyalty painted a target on him, but he wore it carelessly, as if daring anyone to strike.
Leila and Kato became steady presences too, each for their own reasons. The beginnings of something like a group formed around her—not protection, not yet friendship, but a fragile acknowledgment: she was no longer invisible.
And Anaya realized with a jolt that invisibility had almost felt safer.
That night, lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling. Shadows danced with the flickering of the chandelier, though no draft stirred.
She whispered into the dark, "I don't want this."
But deep in her chest, another voice—her own, yet not—murmured back: You have it anyway.
And for the first time, Anaya did not shiver at the thought.
She wondered instead what else she might change, if she dared to try.