Mira's POV
School had never frightened Mira before.
It exhausted her, overwhelmed her, reminded her constantly of what she couldn't do—but fear was new. As she stepped through the iron gates that morning, the chatter of students buzzing around her like restless bees, her chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with arrhythmias.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and inhaled slowly, counting her breaths the way the cardiologist had taught her.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slowly.
The hospital discharge papers were still folded in her bag, along with a fresh prescription and a warning that echoed endlessly in her mind:
Avoid stress. Avoid exertion. Avoid sudden emotions.
Mira almost laughed at that last one. Avoid emotions? If only it were that simple.
Her gaze drifted instinctively across the courtyard—and stopped.
Geveva.
He was leaning against the wall near the bike rack, laughing at something his friend had said. The sound was easy, unforced. When his eyes met hers, his smile softened, as though the rest of the world blurred away.
He lifted a hand in a small wave.
Mira hesitated.
She didn't wave back right away. She told herself she shouldn't. She barely knew him. She had rules—spoken and unspoken—about attachment. About letting people get close. About not giving anyone a reason to stay.
And yet…
She raised her hand.
It was small. Barely noticeable. But his grin widened as though she'd done something extraordinary.
Her heart fluttered.
Focus, she warned herself. That's not the kind of rhythm you want.
Geveva's POV
Geveva noticed her the moment she walked in.
There was something about the way Mira moved—careful, deliberate, as though the ground beneath her feet might shift if she stepped wrong. He'd seen that kind of caution before. Not fear exactly. Awareness.
When she waved back, even hesitantly, something settled in his chest.
He pushed off the wall and ignored the protest from his friend. "I'll catch up later," he said, already moving toward her.
"Hey," he said softly when he reached her side. "You're back."
"Looks like it," Mira replied. Her voice was calm, but he caught the faint tension beneath it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, then quickly added, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
She studied him for a moment, as if weighing the risk. "Okay," she said finally. "For now."
He nodded, accepting that answer like it was enough—because for now, it was.
They walked together toward the building, not too close, not too far. The bell rang, sharp and sudden, and Mira flinched.
Geveva noticed.
"You want me to walk you to class?" he asked.
She hesitated again, then nodded. "Yeah. That'd be… nice."
Nice.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
Mira's POV
The classroom felt too loud.
Too bright.
Mira slid into her seat near the window and pressed her palms lightly against her thighs. She could already feel it—the subtle warning signs she'd learned to recognize long before she could spell her diagnosis.
The faint dizziness.
The flutter in her chest.
The way sounds began to blur together.
Not now, she begged silently. Please, not now.
She focused on the clock. The second hand ticked forward, steady and mocking.
Geveva sat two rows ahead. He turned slightly, glancing back at her. Their eyes met, and something in his expression changed.
Concern.
It was the worst thing—and somehow, the best.
She tried to smile at him, but her vision dimmed at the edges.
The room tilted.
Geveva's POV
Geveva saw it before anyone else did.
The way Mira's shoulders stiffened.
The way her hand gripped the edge of the desk.
The way her eyes lost focus, like she was slipping somewhere he couldn't follow.
"Mira?" he whispered.
She didn't respond.
The sound of her chair scraping against the floor was loud—too loud. Then she collapsed.
"Someone call the nurse!" Geveva shouted, already moving.
He caught her before she hit the ground, her body light and frighteningly limp in his arms.
Her heart—he could feel it against his chest. Too fast. Too uneven.
"I've got you," he murmured, even as fear clawed its way up his throat. "You're okay. I've got you."
Her eyelashes fluttered.
"Mira," he said again, softer now. "Stay with me."
Mira's POV
Voices echoed around her, distant and distorted.
Her body felt heavy, like it was sinking through water. Somewhere far away, someone was calling her name.
Geveva.
She focused on that.
His voice grounded her, pulling her back inch by inch. When her eyes finally opened, the ceiling above her was unfamiliar—but his face was right there, relief flooding his features.
"You scared me," he said quietly.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
She always was.
Aftermath
The nurse insisted she be taken home. The principal called her parents. The classroom buzzed with whispers she tried not to hear.
Geveva stayed.
He walked her to the office. He carried her bag. He didn't ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.
When they sat side by side in the waiting area, Mira broke the silence first.
"You saw it," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he replied simply.
She swallowed. "Most people… they disappear after that."
He turned to her fully then. "I'm not most people."
Her eyes filled despite her efforts. "You don't even know what's wrong with me."
"I know enough," he said gently. "Your heart doesn't play fair. That doesn't make you weak."
Something inside her cracked.
For the first time, she didn't feel like she had to explain herself to be understood.
That night, Mira lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment she'd fallen—and the arms that had caught her.
Across town, Geveva searched medical terms he barely understood, his chest tight with worry and determination.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But from that day on, their lives were no longer separate rhythms.
They had begun to beat—unevenly, imperfectly—together.