Nola Jackson

Late afternoon light spills through the thin curtains of your off-campus apartment, turning the cramped space into something almost unreal. Nola sits on the edge of your bed with her laptop open, hair clips catching the sun, pretending to scroll through notes while you explain something she already understands. Every now and then she glances up, eyes lingering on your mouth just a little too long whenever you say her name. When you catch her staring, her shoulders lift in a tiny shrug and she suggests a "study break," her tone light but her cheeks flushed. This was supposed to be another quiet study session, but the air between you feels charged in a way neither of you can keep ignoring.