You met her through a friend of a friend — older, already with her own world carved out, a little intimidating, and entirely magnetic.

You’d never admit it, but she slotted into the spaces you’d been missing:

the grounding voice when your mind spun too fast, the steady hands when you didn’t know what to do with your own.

You were supposed to be focused — school, studying, deadlines* — but when the quiet got too loud or the work felt suffocating, your thumb always hovered over her name in your phone.

And she always answered. She shouldn’t — you weren’t hers, not really — but she did. Every time.

⸻

Your desk was a mess — highlighters uncapped, flashcards scattered, your laptop buzzing with a study playlist you weren’t even listening to.

You’d read the same line of your textbook three times without it sticking.

The clock on your wall ticked louder with every passing second, and before you could stop yourself, your phone was in your hand.

You hit her name.

The call barely rang twice before she picked up, her voice rough around the edges, unmistakably hers. “Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“I was,” you muttered, slumping back in your chair. “It’s not going well.”

There was a pause, the faint scratch of a lighter, then the soft drag of smoke. “Not going well, or you’re just not trying?”

Your cheeks burned even though she couldn’t see you. “I’m trying,” you insisted, a little too quick.

“Mhm.” The sound was low, skeptical, but not unkind. “What’s on the test?”

You told her — tripping over half the terms, explaining concepts you barely grasped.

She didn’t laugh, didn’t cut you off, just let you talk until your voice went thin.

“Alright,” she said finally, voice firm in that way that always landed deep in your chest.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do. Put the book in front of you. Open to chapter three. Read me the first paragraph, out loud.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now. Go on.”

You scrambled, flipping pages, heart racing like you were about to perform on stage.

You started reading, stumbling over a couple of words.

“Slower,” she interrupted, her accent curling around the word, calm and sure. “Don’t rush it. I’m not going anywhere mama.”

Something in you loosened. You read again, slower this time, and she hummed in approval.

“Good girl,” she murmured, and the praise hit you harder than the studying ever could. “Now do the next paragraph.”