Chapter Twelve
Amelia's POV
The week after the quiz trials was the longest I'd ever lived through.
The results hadn't been posted yet, and Triple H College felt like it was holding its breath. Every conversation in the hallway began and ended with the same question:
"Do you think you made it?"
I tried to keep my focus—reading, revising, even volunteering to help clean the chapel—but my mind kept wandering back to the unanswered question: Did I make the team?
Kamen didn't seem worried at all. He went about his days calm and unreadable, as though results didn't matter. But every now and then, I caught him staring at the noticeboard, his jaw tight. Maybe he wasn't as composed as he pretended.
Hilda, on the other hand, was unraveling. She spent every spare moment in the library, poring over notes as if she could rewrite the outcome by sheer force of will.
Doja teased her, but I couldn't. I understood that kind of fear—the desperate need to be seen, to prove yourself.
The day before vacation officially began, the principal made an announcement over the intercom.
"Quiz Team results will be released after the holidays. All students should travel safely and return ready for the next term's activities."
The groan that rose from the school was almost comic. But for some of us—me, Kamen, Hilda—it wasn't funny. It meant three weeks of not knowing. Three weeks of imagining every possible outcome.
⸻
"Three weeks, Amelia," Doja whined as she packed her clothes. "That's an eternity. I can't survive that long without a good party."
"Try prayer instead," I teased.
She shot me a look. "Prayer doesn't serve jollof at midnight."
I laughed. "You'll live."
She zipped her suitcase dramatically. "You know, for someone who's probably top three, you don't seem that excited."
I shrugged. "Because it's not about being first. I just want to be sure I gave my best."
"Spoken like a true nerd."
She grinned and tugged at one of my braids before heading out. I smiled after her, shaking my head, and turned back to my half-packed bag. My notes were still scattered across the bed, and my Bible lay open beside them. Somehow, packing felt less important than praying.
"Lord," I whispered, "help me to rest. Help me to trust Your timing—even when I can't see what's ahead."
⸻
Home was a breath of fresh air after the chaos of school. The noise of Accra's streets, the smell of stew bubbling in the kitchen, my mother's soft humming—it all wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
But peace didn't mean stillness.
I woke early every morning to study by the window, highlighter in hand. Old habits die hard. The neighbors called me the serious girl with the notebook. I didn't mind. Books had always been my refuge.
On the third night home, my phone buzzed with a message.
Kamen: Hey.
Me: Hi. Didn't think you texted people first.
Kamen: I don't. You're an exception.
My lips curved.
Me: How's home?
Kamen: Loud. My sisters are already arguing about what to cook for Christmas.
Me: Sounds fun.
Kamen: You have a strange definition of fun.
I laughed quietly to myself. Somehow, even over text, Kamen's dry humor made my heart feel lighter.
We talked every day after that. About school, about his sisters, about how weird it was waiting for results. Sometimes about God—though he usually let me do most of the talking.
Me: You should try praying about it.
Kamen: About what?
Me: Everything.
Kamen: You make it sound easy.
Me: It's not. But it's worth it.
He didn't reply right away, but I knew he was thinking.
⸻
One Sunday afternoon, after service, I sat under the mango tree in our yard, scrolling through my phone. The clouds were thick and lazy, and the wind smelled like rain.
A message came through.
Kamen: Can I ask something personal?
Me: Sure.
Kamen: Do you ever think about… us? Like, what this is?
My heart skipped.
Me: I think we're friends. Good friends.
Kamen: Yeah, but what if… I wanted it to be more?
I froze, staring at the screen. The words blurred for a moment. I didn't know what to say—what I should say.
Me: I'd have to pray about it.
There was a long pause. Then:
Kamen: You really do pray about everything.
Me: It's how I find peace.
Kamen: Then I'll wait for your answer.
I smiled faintly.
Me: Then I'll pray faster.
He sent a laughing emoji—his first ever—and somehow, it made my heart ache in the best way.
⸻
The rest of the holiday passed in a blur of family dinners, church programs, and quiet evenings spent journaling by candlelight. Still, no matter how busy I kept myself, a small piece of my mind remained at Triple H—under that oak tree, waiting for answers.
Sometimes, while reading Scripture, my thoughts would drift. What if I don't make it? What if Kamen does? What if this… changes things?
But then I'd breathe, steady and slow, and whisper the same words every night before sleep:
"Lord, Your will, not mine. If it's meant for me, keep it waiting. If it's not, take it away."
⸻
When the final week of vacation rolled in, Kamen texted again.
Kamen: They say results will be out first day back.
Me: I know.
Kamen: Nervous?
Me: A little. But I'm trusting God.
Kamen: Then I'll try that too.
And for the first time, he added a simple line after:
Kamen: You make faith sound real.
⸻
That night, I closed my Bible and smiled to myself.
Maybe it was real—because somewhere between unanswered prayers and late-night texts, I'd found something worth waiting for: peace.
And when school reopened, I'd find out what came next.