Aaliyah lived most of her life in the in-between: between duty and desire, silence and scream, faith and fatigue.
Classes ended at four. She walked alone down the cracked pavement outside the philosophy building, the January wind tangling with her veil. She didn't mind the cold. It made her feel less. And less was easier.
At the bench near the iron gate, a man watched her again.
He wasn't the type you overlooked. His presence was too loud for silence, even when he said nothing. Tousled black hair, cigarette fingers, leather jacket that looked older than his soul. There was a quiet danger in the way he slouched—like he could tear the world down but hadn't found a reason yet.
He exhaled smoke as their eyes met.
"You always read the heavy stuff," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the book in her hands—Les Misérables, pages dog-eared and weathered.
She slowed but didn't stop. "It's literature," she replied. "Not everything's supposed to be light."
"Neither are you," he said.
It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't even curiosity. It was observation. Honest, unnerving.
She turned and walked away.
Later that evening, in the quiet of her room, she opened her book and found a note folded inside:
"You look like a girl who's trying not to burn. Do it anyway."
She didn't know how he placed it there.
She didn't know his name.
But something in her chest cracked open.
Just a little.
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