POV: Kelsey
The sun filtered through the dusty windows of the lecture hall, drawing long golden lines across the worn-out wooden desks. I sat two seats behind Amara, pretending to listen to the lecturer. But my mind? It was spiraling, caught somewhere between guilt and something sweeter—something dangerously close to a crush.
Kingsley.
It started subtly, harmless even. The way he'd tilt his head when asking a question, or how he'd smile when Amara spoke. He didn't even know I noticed him. I didn't want to notice him. But the more he showed up for Amara—waiting after class, laughing at her dry jokes, helping her revise—he started showing up in my head too. Late at night, when I should be studying. In the mornings, when I passed him in the hallway and our eyes met for a second too long.
And I hated it.
Not because Kingsley wasn't a good guy. Honestly, that was the problem. He was a good guy. Smart. Calm. Focused. He had that rare mix of boldness and kindness that made it almost impossible to ignore him.
But he was Amara's friend.
No… her "just friend," as she always said.
"Kingsley? Oh please, we're just friends. Don't read meanings."
She'd said that three times last week. I'd counted. But still, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something between them. Something soft. Something safe. And that "just friends" label? It didn't feel like the full truth.
After class, I walked beside Amara as we headed toward the cafeteria. She was ranting about the new research assignment, waving her hand in the air dramatically like she always did when she was overwhelmed.
"I swear, Miss Heather acts like we have nothing else to do but write ten-page reviews and defend them like it's our final year," she huffed.
I smiled, trying to focus on her words instead of the growing pit in my stomach. That awkward feeling that I was… lying. Just by standing next to her. Just by hiding a feeling she didn't even know existed.
As we reached the hallway corner, Kingsley appeared from the side wing, his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. His eyes brightened when he saw us.
"Ladies," he grinned. "Mind if I crash lunch?"
Amara rolled her eyes playfully. "Crash? Please. You basically live in our cafeteria table."
I laughed—too loud, maybe. His gaze shifted toward me, and our eyes locked. For a second, I forgot how to move.
"Hey, Kelsey," he said warmly. Just two words. But they echoed in my ears for way too long.
"Hey," I replied, sounding like I'd just learned to speak.
As we sat down at our usual table, I watched them. The way he leaned in when Amara spoke. The way she didn't notice the subtle things he did for her—pulling out a chair, offering to help with her presentation slides, showing up with her favorite snack from the vending machine.
And yet, she kept saying they were just friends.
I felt selfish even thinking about it. But a small voice in my head whispered: If she doesn't see it, maybe it's not hers to keep.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay on my bed in the hostel, the fan humming above me, casting slow-moving shadows across the wall. Amara was on the lower bunk, already knocked out after a long day of study. Her notes were still scattered across her bed, highlighters poking out like confetti. She always fell asleep like that—mid-sentence, mid-note, mid-thought.
I stared at the ceiling, my heart pounding with questions I didn't want to answer.
What if I told her?
What if I didn't?
What if she got hurt?
What if I missed my chance… again?
Because truth was, I wasn't usually the girl who chased. I wasn't bold like Geraldine. I wasn't mysterious like Amara. I was… Kelsey. The friend. The listener. The shoulder.
But this time, something inside me wanted to step forward. Wanted to stop watching and start trying.
The next day in class, Kingsley passed me a note—Amara was absent that morning due to cramps.
"You alright? You looked quiet yesterday."
I smiled to myself. He noticed.
I wrote back:
"Just had a lot on my mind."
He glanced at me from the front row and gave a small smile. My chest fluttered, and for a moment, I imagined what it would feel like if the roles were reversed. If I were the one he was walking home after class. If I were the one he brought snacks for. If I—
No.
I closed the thought like a drawer. Because for now, I didn't want to hurt Amara. Not yet. Not ever, if I could help it. But the tension was growing inside me like a tightly wound spring.
And the worst part?
She had no idea.