My breath stutters. Hearing our names said together like that, in a room full of people, feels unreal. Like a ghost I didn’t know I’d been carrying finally let go.
“This submission stood out for its bold, community-centered vision,” the dean continues. “Greer and Hawkins approached the challenge not just as a design problem, but as a chance to reframe what a building can be. Rather than a static structure, their proposal transforms the D4 toilet block into a living, evolving educational hub—one that teaches sustainability by doing, not just by existing.
“The judges were particularly struck by the project's long-term impact model, its user-led systems, and its refusal to separate form from function. This wasn’t just a plan—it was a philosophy. A way of saying: Education doesn’t end when you leave the classroom. Sometimes, the buildingisthe teacher.”
Trixie exhales beside me, a short, stunned breath that matches the chaos happening in my own chest.
“In the judges’ words,” the dean finishes, “this project was not only feasible—it wasvisionary.”
Trixie squeezes my hand again, this time with a little excited shake. “That's you!” she whispers, unnecessarily but sweetly.
I nod, unable to speak. My eyes find Troy again, but he'sstill facing forward. I can't see his expression, can't tell what he's thinking.
The dean describes the remaining projects, each one impressive in its own way. Then she pauses, building anticipation.
“After careful deliberation, the judges have selected the winner of this year's Future Innovators Challenge, who will receive the ten-thousand-dollar grant and see their project implemented on campus...”
The room goes still, everyone holding their breath.
“The winners are... Delilah Greer and Troy Hawkins with 'The Living Classroom'!”
For a moment, I don't move. Can't move. The words don't quite register.
A wave of relief hits me so hard—like someone just lifted a concrete block off my chest that I've been carrying for years. My rent. Books for my final semester. The emergency fund I've been desperately trying to rebuild.
The constant, gnawing anxiety about money that's been my unwanted companion since childhood suddenly quiets for a moment, just enough to hear myself think.
I don't cry. I don't scream. That's not who I am. But I do take a deep, steadying breath.
Trixie squeals, throwing her arms around me. “You won! You did it!”
Around us, people are applauding. I stand on shaky legs, still stunned.
And then, across the rows of seats, Troy turns.
His eyes find mine instantly, like he knows exactly where I am. Like he's been aware of me this whole time.
He smiles—not his usual confident grin, but something smaller, more genuine. Almost shy.
And just like that, all the careful distance I've maintained collapses.
“Go,” Trixie says, nudging me forward. “Go talk to him.”
I hesitate, frozen in place.
“Delilah,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Remember what we talked about? About taking chances?”
I do remember. All our late-night conversations about trust and risk and how sometimes the scariest things are the most worthwhile.
“What if he doesn't want to talk to me?” I whisper.
“Then at least you'll know,” she says simply. “But I have a feeling that's not going to be a problem.”
I glance back at Troy. He's still watching me, waiting.
Taking a deep breath,I step into the aisle and begin making my way toward him. Toward the stage. Toward whatever comes next.
Behind me, I hear Trixie's encouraging “You got this!” And for once, I almost believe it.
