The walls of the academic office bore the hushed weight of a hundred anxious visits. Brochures lined the far wall in tidy acrylic holders—"Pathways to Your Degree," "Managing Your Course Load," "Tips for First-Years." The scent of paper and brewed coffee mingled with faint hints of dry eraser dust. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead.
Mia lingered just outside the threshold, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She wasn't visible to anyone in the room—not in any way that counted—but her presence pressed gently against the corner of the space.
Sarah sat upright across from the advisor, pen poised over a lined notepad. Her shoulders tensed with every question, but her responses came steady.
"So, the core requirements include composition, mathematics, and at least one lab science," the advisor said, sliding a tri-fold pamphlet across the desk. "We'll build your schedule based on where you are with those."
Sarah nodded, scribbling notes quickly. Her handwriting wobbled at the edges, but she didn't pause. Mia noticed how her eyes darted to the course codes, scanning for words she recognized—safety in the familiar.
The advisor leaned back, tapping the desk lightly. "You mentioned an interest in social work?"
"Yes," Sarah replied, almost too quickly.
"Then you'll want to consider Psychology 101 early. It's a prerequisite for everything that comes after. And statistics. You'll hate it—but it's essential."
Sarah's pen slowed. She tilted her head. "I thought statistics was more… math-heavy?"
The advisor smiled. "It is. But it's the kind of math that teaches you how people think. Or at least how data says they think."
From her vantage point by the door, Mia watched the twitch at the corner of Sarah's mouth—not quite a smile, but close. The kind of expression that meant she was considering something seriously.
Mia's fingers pressed lightly into her notebook. She didn't write—there was nothing new to record. But the moment itself etched into her memory with soft gravity.
There had been years—entire years—where Sarah hadn't looked this focused. This receptive.
A small voice inside Mia's mind whispered: She's doing this.
And not because I'm pushing.
The advisor reached for another folder. "Now, let's talk electives. These aren't required, but they're what keep your brain from melting."
Sarah's laugh came soft and uncertain.
Mia closed her eyes briefly. The sound clung to the corners of the room.
"Creative writing, maybe?" the advisor offered. "Or something like visual arts? If you're carrying a full course load, it's good to have one class that lets you breathe."
Sarah hesitated, then jotted down the code beside Creative Writing I.
"That's a good pick," the advisor said. "Now, before you go, I need to mention the placement exams. We'll schedule you for the English and math assessments. They determine where you start in the sequence."
That word—placement—seemed to change the air.
Sarah's pen stilled.
Mia felt the shift too. An invisible tightening.
The advisor kept her tone light. "They're not a judgment. Just a starting point. Some students test out of requirements. Others just… need a foundation. Either way, we work with where you are."
Sarah gave a small nod.
Mia watched the tips of her fingers press into the page, knuckles paling.
It was the look of someone measuring not just knowledge—but worth.
Mia itched to step closer. To whisper something. To do anything.
But she stayed where she was.
Instead, she looked at Sarah's notepad, at the messy constellation of bullet points, stars, circled course numbers.
It was a map.
One Sarah was drawing herself.
The advisor stood. "You'll get an email about the exams. If you have questions, my door's open. Not literally, of course. Budget cuts."
Sarah gave a small laugh. This one sounded real.
As they shook hands, Mia exhaled. She didn't know she'd been holding her breath.
Outside the office, Sarah stepped into the sunlight spilling through the corridor's high windows. She paused, leaning against the railing that overlooked the quad.
Her notepad hung loose at her side.
Mia followed, the warmth of the afternoon pressing against her like a soft tide.
She didn't speak.
But she stood close.
Sarah flipped the notepad open again, traced one finger down the list of classes.
Then, very softly, she murmured, "Okay."
Mia smiled.
And the world, for a moment, stood still.
Sarah didn't move for a long time. She stared out across the quad as if seeing it for the first time—with a gaze not shaped by confusion or anxiety, but quiet recognition. The open grass, the students sprawled on blankets, the distant sound of a guitar being strummed under a tree—it all felt… reachable.
She turned a page in the notepad, smoothing it with her palm. On the back, she began scribbling tentative questions: "What time are early classes usually held?" and "How much time between classes is ideal?"
Each note wasn't just logistical. It was personal. Practical. Intentional.
She added a box labeled "Things I'm nervous about," and beneath it, wrote in small but firm letters: math test. Then, right under that, she added: being the oldest in the room. And finally: starting something I might not finish.
She stared at the last line for a long time. Then, without crossing it out, she drew a small sunburst beside it.
Mia watched from a step away, heart full. She knew what that little sunburst meant. Sarah hadn't erased the fear—but she had acknowledged it. And adorned it.
This was how healing looked.
Not dramatic.
Just deliberate.
And as Sarah flipped another page, creating a column labeled "supplies," with "folder, highlighters, extra charger," Mia stepped closer in spirit. She knew these were more than just materials.
They were declarations.
Preparations.
A soft wind rippled through the hallway window. Sarah caught a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her gaze dropped to her planner, and she added one final entry:
Ask about work-study.
The pen hovered, and then beneath it:
Ask for help if I need it.
Mia closed her eyes.
Not to disappear.
But to give space.
And when Sarah finally turned from the balcony, stepping back into the movement of her day, Mia stayed just behind her—not as a guide now, but a witness.
This was her chapter.
Not a page turned for her.
A page she chose to write.
She walked slowly toward the stairwell, her bag slung over one shoulder, the notepad still open in one hand. Her fingers tapped the edge of the page rhythmically, as if sketching a beat only she could hear. There was no hurry.
For the first time in a long while, she had space to decide.