And just like that, I see her. Really see her, maybe for the first time.
She’s small. She’s always been small, and the only reason I never noticed is because I spent years making myself smaller tofit beside her. I wanted a friend so badly in high school that I let everything slide. The remarks that always had just enough of an edge to sting. The envy she wrapped in humor so I couldn’t call it what it was. The way she had this talent for making me feel fortunate just to be in her orbit, like I should be grateful she’d chosen me at all.
I wasn’t lucky to have her. I was just easy to keep.
I let her simmer for a moment while I tuck one of my books into my backpack.
“I’m going to say this once, and I hope it’s the last time. Stay away from me. Stop acknowledging my existence. We have nothing to share, Paulina.”
If anyone could breathe fire right now, it would be her.
“You think I’m going to let this go like it never happened? They docked two points from my final grade, Amalia. You’re lucky we’re in public because otherwise...”
Euclid, give me strength!
“Otherwise what, Paulina?” And this time I’m the one stepping into her space, giving her no room to breathe. “The next time you so much as breathe my air, I will make sure you’re expelled, because that was the dean’s solution. I’m the one who proposed two points off your grade. I gave you the chance to keep studying here. That was an act of generosity on my part, so don’t make me regret it.”
I watch my former friend stare at me with her mouth slightly open. The old Amalia would never have said any of that. The old Amalia would have sat down and taken it, but this time someone rattled something loose in me.
I feel a current at the tips of my fingers, where we touched two days ago, and I am officially in trouble.
Pull yourself together, Amalia Sanchez!
Paulina turns and walks away without another word.
I don’t move. I just stand there, replaying the last thirty seconds, trying to figure out who exactly that was. Because I snapped. I actually snapped, without second-guessing myself, without apologizing immediately after. And there’s this feeling in my chest, restless and warm and completely unidentified, and I don’t know what to do with any of it.
This is not me.
At least, it never used to be.
Good thing the bell snaps me out of it, and I rush to the next classroom.
Camila Fuentes is one of my favorite professors, and the fact that she teaches one of the hardest courses on the curriculum only makes me respect her more. It takes me exactly two minutes and ten seconds to reach her lecture hall from the main path, a route I’ve walked enough times to know every shortcut. I slip into the front row as usual, settling my laptop, notebook, and colored markers onto the desk with the quiet efficiency of someone who has done this a thousand times.
When I look up at the board, I find her already staring at me with unusual intensity. I instinctively reach for my phone to check that I haven’t left whipped cream from my hot chocolate on my face.
I haven’t. So that’s not it.
Before she starts the lecture, she walks over and leans both hands on my desk, dropping her voice just above a whisper.
“Be careful not to lose yourself in distractions, Amalia. You have enormous potential, but that alone isn’t always enough.” She gives me a small, knowing wink and straightens up.
I watch her walk back to the front of the room, genuinely baffled. I am the most dedicated student I know. I time my attendance at parties to the minute. I don’t drink. I have never been in love. I’m not entirely sure I understand what distractions she thinks I could possibly have. But okay.
She spends the rest of the class walking us through sorting algorithms, then assigns homework before letting us go: implement three of them and compare their running times. I write the requirements down neatly, already knowing exactly which test cases I’ll use.
The lecture ends, and I’m already packing up before the last sentence leaves her mouth. Math analysis is in the building across the courtyard, and I have exactly seven minutes to get there. I sling my bag over my shoulder, murmur a quick goodbye to the girl beside me, and half walk, half jog across campus, the cold air hitting my face as soon as I push through the doors.
I make it with two minutes to spare, which feels like a personal victory until I notice my heart is beating considerably harder than the sprint warrants.
Ay corazoncito, we need to start exercising more!
But I realize, deep down, that’s not the only reason it beats like this.
I know this man unsettles me. But standing here now, I can’t even pretend it’s simple nerves. It’s something more layered than that, a combination of adrenaline, anxiety, and anticipation that I shouldn’t be feeling. Not toward my math professor.
I frown at myself and take my seat. I’m among the first to arrive, and Mr. Vaughn isn’t at the podium yet.
