Ann and Mia read, but not in the way people imagine reading.
It wasn't the calm, cinematic kind with neat highlighters and gentle nods of understanding. It was frantic. Pages turned like eerie wings. Pens raced across the page as if trying to etch every word into their very souls. This was their last paper, the final academic hurdle before the word almost would stop hanging over their heads like a suspended blade.
They sat opposite each other, books spread, notes overlapping, silence broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional sigh that escaped without permission. Mia read aloud at intervals, her voice steady, anchoring the room. Ann listened, nodded, underlined, circled, but her mind wandered the way grief always wanders, without asking for directions.
She wasn't happy.
She hadn't been happy for days.
Not even when she laughed.
Happiness, for Ann, had become something theatrical, performed when required, withdrawn when alone. Alex's absence sat inside her chest like a room she refused to enter, yet could never lock. While Mia focused on theories and structures, Ann was rebuilding memories she didn't ask to remember.
She replayed everything.
The way Alex smiled with his whole face, as if joy had once rented space inside him permanently. The warmth of his hands when he held hers, not gripping, just present. The laughter that spilled between them effortlessly, the kind that didn't need a punchline. The kisses, slow, unhurried, full of promise. Kisses that tasted like tomorrow.
She remembered the night they almost crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
How close he had been. How his breath had mingled with hers. How the world had narrowed to skin and heartbeat and the fragile trembling of restraint. She remembered stopping him. Not because she didn't want him, but because she wanted them to mean more than a moment stolen from the dark.
She had told him to wait.
Told him there would be another time.
Now that sentence echoed like a cruel joke.
In the quiet of her thoughts, she thanked God silently. Not with joy, but with a subdued gratitude that tasted like ashes. Thank you for not allowing him to cross that boundary,, she thought. Thank you for not letting the deepest part of me become another thing he could walk away from.
Because he had walked away.
Dumped her with the emotional efficiency of someone deleting a file they no longer needed. No gradual fading. No careful goodbye. Just absence, sharp, sudden, irreversible.
When they finished reading, the exhaustion settled in. That particular exhaustion that didn't come from studying, but from holding oneself together for too long.
They packed their books.
Mia went back to her place, offering Ann a smile that tried to carry comfort without prying. Ann nodded, returning the smile with practiced ease, then headed to her apartment alone.
Her apartment welcomed her the way loneliness always does, quiet, unchanged, indifferent. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and sank onto the bed without ceremony. For a while, she just sat there, staring at nothing, letting the weight of the day press against her ribs.
Then it happened.
She reached for her phone, intending to check the time, and her fingers betrayed her. The screen lit up, and there it was.
A picture.
Her and Alex.
Taken when the going was good. When love still felt like a shared language instead of a miscommunication. They were close in the picture, shoulders touching, smiles unguarded. The kind of picture you take without knowing it will someday become evidence of a crime called memory.
Fresh tears welled up instantly, like her eyes had been waiting for permission.
They spilled. Quietly. Unapologetically.
She didn't sob, not yet. She just cried the way people do when they are too tired to fight their own hearts. Tears traced paths down her cheeks, warm and relentless, soaking into the pillow as she curled inward, clutching the phone like it might explain itself.
Why wasn't love enough?
When did waiting become a mistake?
How does someone leave without taking the echoes of themselves with them?
The questions didn't want answers. They just wanted to exist.
Eventually, she wiped her face. Slowly. Deliberately. Like someone choosing survival over surrender.
She knew, painfully, logically, that she had to let go of Alex. Not because it was easy, but because holding on was costing her parts of herself she couldn't afford to lose. This final exam didn't care about her broken heart. The University of Illinois didn't pause for heartbreaks. Deadlines didn't soften. Papers didn't reschedule themselves out of sympathy.
And Ann, Ann was determined.
Determined to graduate.
Determined to succeed.
Determined to finish in flying first-class colors, even if her heart limped across the finish line.
Days passed.
The world didn't stop spinning, even though it felt like it should have asked her first. Ann and Mia continued meeting for study sessions, sitting across tables worn smooth by years of academic ambition. They quizzed each other, corrected mistakes, shared tired smiles. Mia noticed the change in Ann, not dramatic, not loud, but present. A quiet discipline had replaced visible grief. Pain had learned to dress neatly and sit properly.
They prepared.
And then the final examination arrived.
The exam hall was large, impersonal, echoing with the shuffling of feet and the nervous clearing of throats. Rows of desks stood like soldiers awaiting inspection. Ann took her seat beside Mia, her heart pounding not from fear of failure, but from the gravity of finality.
This was it.
Pens were lifted. Instructions read. Time began.
The questions demanded clarity, application, precision. Years of learning compressed into hours. Ann focused. Every line she drew, every answer she formed, came from a place deeper than memory, muscle memory. She worked steadily, carefully, her mind quiet for once. No Alex. No heartbreak. Just purpose.
Mia wrote too, occasionally glancing up, grounding herself, then returning to the page.
When it was over, it was over.
They walked out together, blinking into daylight like survivors emerging from something unnamed. They didn't scream. They didn't jump. They just exhaled.
They were almost done.
Almost graduates.
Almost architects with a BSc to their names.
What remained was the final studio project.
The one thing architecture students both fear and revere.
The final studio project wasn't just an assignment; it was a summation. A demand to bring everything learned, concept, structure, logic, creativity, into one coherent statement. They were required to research, conceptualize, design, draw, model, and defend a project that reflected not only technical competence, but intellectual maturity.
It required sleepless nights, revisions layered over revisions, critiques that stripped ego bare and rebuilt it stronger. It was architecture laid bare, no hiding behind excuses.
Ann threw herself into it.
She designed with intensity. With precision. With a focus that surprised even her. Each decision carried intention. Each line had reason. Her work spoke clearly, confidently, like it knew exactly what it was meant to be.
When the project was finished and reviewed, the outcome was undeniable.
Ann came top.
Her lecturers praised her. Professors admired her depth. Colleagues congratulated her, voices full of admiration and a hint of envy. Smiles surrounded her. Applause followed her name.
But none of them knew.
They didn't know the nights she stared at ceilings instead of sleeping. They didn't know the grief folded neatly beneath her composure. They didn't know that the strength they applauded was forged in loss.
She smiled anyway.
Because sometimes, survival looks like celebration.
Ann was the second-born of two children to Mr. and Mrs. Richardson. When they arrived, pride walked into the room before they did. Their daughter had done well, exceptionally well, and they had come to celebrate her. To witness the culmination of years of sacrifice, prayers, and perseverance.
Preparations for the school's ceremony for architecture students began.
Caps and gowns were arranged. Names were confirmed. Schedules were followed. On the day of the ceremony, graduates arrived early, lining up as instructed, robes flowing, nerves humming softly beneath excitement. The architecture convocation proceeded with order, faculty addresses, recognition of excellence, the formal acknowledgment of achievement.
When Ann's name was called, it carried weight.
She emerged as the best student in her class.
Applause rose. Cameras flashed. Pride stood tall.
Later, during the larger school graduation, her name surfaced again. Best in different courses she had taken. Recognition stacked upon recognition. Each announcement met with louder claps, deeper admiration.
And then it came.
As she stepped forward to receive the prize for overall best student in architecture, something inside her finally gave way.
She started sobbing.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. But unmistakably.
Tears streamed down her face as she reached for the prize, hands trembling, breath uneven. The hall erupted in applause, clapping intensifying as people assumed the tears were joy overflowing its container.
But Mia knew.
Mia watched her friend and understood that grief doesn't respect achievements. That love lost doesn't dissolve because success arrives. Ann was still yearn for Alex, not the man he became, but the future she had imagined with him.
Afterward, Ann took pictures with her parents and her brother. Smiles framed the photos, pride evident, accomplishment undeniable. They celebrated her, her strength, her brilliance, her completion of the degree in flying colors.
And then the ceremonies ended.
The crowd thinned. The noise faded. The day began folding into memory.
Mia found Ann and pulled her into a quiet moment, offering comfort without words, presence without pressure.