Zendaya's POV
The morning after that night with Ransford felt… different.
Not in a good way. Not entirely bad either.
I woke up in my dorm room, the faint sunlight spilling across the sheets. My phone lay face down on the bedside table. No notifications. No messages from Ransford. The absence felt heavier than the presence ever did.
I wrapped my arms around myself and thought about him. About the way he held me last night. About the way his hands were familiar but not reassuring. About how, even after we were close, he reached for his phone without hesitation.
And worst of all… about the way Beatrice's name had been on that screen.
I pressed my lips together, trying to stop the ache that had settled in my chest. I knew I shouldn't let it bother me, but it did. More than I wanted it to.
I got ready slowly, deliberately, forcing myself to focus on schoolwork and not the leftover haze of emotions. I told myself I was overthinking. That maybe this was just part of college life — crushes, misunderstandings, and messy feelings. But deep down, I knew better. I'd been living in someone else's orbit for too long.
By the time I reached campus, Ransford had already made his presence obvious. He was leaning against the steps of the main building, casually laughing with Beatrice. The sun hit his hair in a way that made him look effortless, like he belonged there. And he did — at least in his world.
I hesitated near the fountain, my bag heavy on my shoulder, unsure if I should pass by or turn back. Then I saw him glance at me. My stomach flipped.
He smiled — that lazy, knowing smile that always made me forget to breathe — but it wasn't meant for me. It was aimed at Beatrice.
"Zendaya!" Beatrice called, waving. "Come say hi!"
I forced a tight-lipped smile and walked toward them.
Ransford's eyes flicked to mine, just for a second, then back to her. My chest tightened.
"You're late," he said casually, not even meeting my gaze.
"Traffic," I muttered. Not that anyone cared.
Beatrice laughed. "You know, Ransford was telling me how helpful you are. Always there when he needs you."
I froze. Helpful. That's what I was — helpful. Not desired, not chosen. Just convenient.
Ransford didn't deny it. He just shrugged, leaning casually against the railing, like it was obvious and not worth explanation.
I forced a nod. "Glad I can help," I said quietly, my words tasting bitter.
I walked past them, trying to disappear into the crowd. That's when I almost ran into someone — literally.
"Watch it!" a calm, firm voice said.
I looked up and met eyes that weren't Ransford's. They were… different. Clear, assessing, steady.
"I'm sorry," I said, clutching my bag tighter.
"You're Zendaya Wilson, right?" he asked, with a small, knowing smile.
I blinked. "Yes… do I know you?"
"No," he said, shrugging. "Not yet."
Something about the way he said it made me pause. He wasn't flirting. He wasn't smiling in a teasing way. He just… noticed me. Really noticed.
"I'm Darian Cole," he introduced himself casually. "You dropped this," he added, holding out a notebook I hadn't realized had slipped from my bag.
I took it, my fingers brushing his for the briefest second. I expected him to step back awkwardly. He didn't. He waited, calm, patient. Observing.
"Thanks," I muttered.
"No problem," he said simply. Then he glanced toward Ransford and Beatrice, who were still laughing. "You always apologize for existing," he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You smile like you're apologizing for existing," he repeated, tilting his head. "Like you're trying to prove something you shouldn't have to."
I swallowed. The words caught me off guard. No one had ever said anything like that to me. Not Ransford. Not anyone.
I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing.
Darian simply nodded once, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment, and turned to leave. Then, as if remembering something, he added, "See you around."
And just like that, he was gone.
I spent the rest of the morning in a haze, replaying our brief encounter. His words echoed louder than Ransford's midnight confessions. Why did that matter so much? Why did the calm way he saw me unsettle me?
By the time I reached my lecture hall, my phone buzzed.
It was Ransford.
"Where are you? I thought you'd be here by now."
I ignored it.
He texted again.
"Zendaya, answer me."
And then again:
"Don't walk away like that."
I felt a flicker of satisfaction. For the first time, I didn't rush to appease him. I didn't feel obligated to explain.
I looked out the window, thinking about Darian. About the way he had said I shouldn't feel the need to prove myself. About how he hadn't asked for anything in return.
It made Ransford feel… wrong.
Later that day, I found myself in the library, trying to focus on my notes but failing spectacularly. My thoughts kept drifting back to both of them — to Ransford, who had just used me again for comfort, and to Darian, who had seen me in a way no one else ever had.
I didn't notice Darian approach until he was standing beside me.
"You sit here often?" he asked casually, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
I blinked. "Sometimes."
He nodded, setting his bag down. "You look like you have a lot on your mind."
I opened my mouth to lie — to say "I'm fine" — but he interrupted before I could.
"You don't need to pretend with me," he said, matter-of-factly. "I can tell when someone's carrying too much."
His words were disarming. I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he didn't know me. But… he did. Somehow, in the space of a few words, he had seen straight through me.
I closed my notebook. "Why do you care?" I asked quietly.
"Because no one should feel invisible when they're right in front of you," he replied.
I wanted to scoff. Instead, I shivered a little.
Later, as the sun dipped, Ransford texted again.
"Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?"
My fingers froze.
I typed carefully:
"Just someone from class."
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
"Stay away from him," Ransford wrote.
My chest tightened.
Stay away?
I had been giving Ransford my nights, my mornings, my loyalty — and now someone noticed me for being more than just convenient, and he wanted to control it.
Unknown Number.
"He doesn't get to decide who you talk to."
I froze.
It was Darian.
"Who are you?" I typed back.
"The man who won't make you beg," he replied.
And just like that, for the first time in months, I felt… seen.
Ransford texted again.
"Zendaya. Answer me."
I stared at the two conversations, my chest pounding.
One drained me. One awakened me.
I didn't rush to answer either.
For the first time in months… I realized I had a choice.
A real choice.
And that scared me more than anything else.