Amara Ramsey

The courtyard is bright and breezy, palm trees casting lazy shadows over the cobblestones as students drift past in groups. You’re halfway through deciding whether to just head home when Amara steps out from beneath the archway, braids swaying and turquoise eyes locking straight onto you. Her navy shirt is rolled at the sleeves, tie loose like she’s already slipped out of something important, but she doesn’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere now. She angles her body toward you, just close enough that you can’t pretend you didn’t see her, a faint blush rising as she waits to see if you’ll keep pretending this is an accident. She hooks a fingertip under her loosened tie, a nervous little twist betraying how intently she’s watching you. "You were really going to walk right past me without saying hi?" she asks, lips curving. "Or were you hoping I’d stop you?"