The administrative wing of campus felt different from the rest—cooler, quieter, and more compressed in its order. Polished marble floors reflected the fluorescent lights above, and the soft thud of office doors opening and closing formed a metronome to the day's rhythm.
Sarah stood just inside the threshold, her reflection visible in the glossy surface beneath her feet. She clutched her folder—carefully prepared, contents aligned with precision—while her free hand brushed once over her sleeve as if smoothing invisible wrinkles.
Across from her, the reception desk stretched long and impersonal, its surface broken only by a pen on a chain and a discreet sign-in sheet. Behind it, a receptionist typed without looking up.
Mia lingered near a row of pamphlets along the hallway wall, posture casual but eyes trained. From this angle, she could observe everything—Sarah's posture, her breath, the moment her fingers flexed slightly before stepping forward.
"Hi," Sarah said to the receptionist, her voice polite but firm. "I'm here for an interview with Ms. Lattimore. Sarah Yuen."
The receptionist glanced up, nodded once, and gestured to a chair. "She'll be with you shortly."
Sarah thanked her and sat. Her folder rested neatly on her lap.
Mia exhaled quietly.
There were no mistakes so far. No stumbles.
Still, a tightness lingered in her chest.
Sarah's foot tapped once, then stilled. Her gaze moved across the posters on the wall: career pathways, resume tips, internship spotlights.
"Professionalism starts with presence," one of them read.
Mia smiled faintly.
Moments later, a door to the left opened. A woman in tailored slacks and a soft mauve blouse stepped out, holding a tablet.
"Sarah Yuen?"
Sarah rose. "Yes. Nice to meet you."
The woman extended a hand. "Alison Lattimore. Come on in."
They disappeared behind the door.
Mia shifted slightly to the side, positioning herself near the corner where the door remained ajar just enough for voices to carry.
"I see from your file that you've had some event coordination experience," Ms. Lattimore was saying.
"Yes, through a student organization. I helped with venue logistics and contacting speakers," Sarah answered.
Mia closed her eyes for a moment, letting the steady cadence of Sarah's responses calm her nerves.
Then a pause.
"What are you hoping to do long-term, Sarah?"
Mia's eyes opened.
The question hovered in the air.
Sarah didn't answer right away.
The silence stretched—
—and then she said quietly, "To help create structures that work. Systems that don't require shouting just to be heard."
The words landed like stones skipping across a still pond.
Lattimore's pen paused mid-note. Her gaze lifted.
Sarah continued, more certain now. "I've seen how much falls through cracks. People, ideas, intentions. I think we need bridges. Actual ones. Not just slogans."
Mia's chest tightened.
Lattimore nodded, tapping the tablet screen. "That's a clear answer. And a good one. Let's talk about the logistics coordinator track. It's new, and you might be a fit."
Sarah leaned forward slightly, her brows knitting with focus. "What would it involve?"
Mia listened as they spoke: tasks, rotation structure, mentorship pairing. She could tell Sarah was absorbing every detail. Responding with calm clarity.
It wasn't rehearsed.
It was real.
A shift not in what she said, but how she held space inside the conversation.
Half an hour passed before the door opened again.
Sarah stepped out, her expression composed but touched with color—something between exhaustion and quiet satisfaction.
Mia fell into step beside her without a word as they walked down the hallway.
"How do you feel?" Mia asked, her voice low.
Sarah inhaled. "Like I didn't flinch. Not once."
They reached the outer doors. The late afternoon sun spilled through the glass, catching on Sarah's folder.
She glanced at it. "I don't know if I'll get it."
"You don't need to know yet," Mia replied. "You just needed to show up."
Sarah nodded. Her grip on the folder loosened slightly.
As they exited, a breeze caught the edge of a flyer pinned outside the doorway. It flapped once, revealing bold black letters: "Services aren't just offered. They're negotiated."
Sarah looked at it, then laughed softly. "Accurate."
Mia didn't laugh, but her smile lingered longer than usual.
They walked side by side down the steps, neither rushing the descent.
Behind them, the doors closed with a quiet click, sealing away the echo of effort—but not the trace of impact.
Sarah glanced down at her folder again as they crossed the path to the quad. She stopped beneath the shade of a maple tree and opened it slightly, revealing not just the forms but notes—handwritten additions, cross-referenced footnotes, a chart she'd drawn by hand.
Mia noticed and tilted her head. "You prepped more than you needed."
Sarah shrugged lightly. "I didn't want to over-rely on the script. I wanted to respond, not just recite."
Mia's gaze warmed. "You did."
They stood in that patch of filtered light for a moment longer, the sounds of campus resuming around them—students laughing near a bench, the hiss of a sprinkler rotating onto dry grass, a bicycle's brakes squealing as someone paused at the pathway curb.
Sarah closed the folder, tucking it under her arm.
"Whatever happens next," she said, almost to herself, "I'm not back at the start anymore."
"No," Mia agreed. "You're not."
Sarah took a step, then paused again. "Do you think Lattimore knew who I was? From the protest?"
Mia considered, then replied evenly, "She knew your name from your work. That's what matters."
Sarah nodded slowly. "Then I guess I'm okay with that."
They resumed walking. A breeze lifted the corner of a bench flyer, revealing a quote beneath: "Progress is measured not by the loudest moment, but by the next one."
Sarah didn't stop to read it, but Mia did. And smiled.
As they turned toward the central walkway, a familiar voice called from the side path—one of Sarah's classmates from the organizing committee. "Hey! We're grabbing food if you're free."
Sarah looked at Mia, uncertain.
"Go," Mia said. "You've earned it."
Sarah hesitated only a second before jogging to catch up with the others, her folder tucked under one arm, her steps light.
Mia stayed at the edge of the path, watching until the group rounded the corner.
Then she turned and walked the other way, passing the tall hedges that bordered the quad's south side. Each step she took clicked lightly on the concrete, a metered beat against the wind.
As she walked, her hand brushed the edge of a small slip of paper caught in the fence. It was one of the flyers, torn and rain-streaked, barely legible now. But three words remained clear:
"Keep the momentum."
She folded the scrap carefully, slid it into her pocket, and continued walking.