Another significant reason, aside from my family reasons, fueling my big decision to move to New York was that I had received a scholarship from one of the best universities in the world. Now, all that was left was to enroll in the university and find an affordable flat nearby. On a note, I wanted no insecure feelings. On another note, I'd had enough of those grueling interviews. Instead, I was planning to resume writing web novels to sustain myself alongside my studies. It was a much better option than juggling a part-time job, which would be overwhelming and unmanageable with my academic workload. Writing had always been my profession, my passion, and my constant companion, so it felt like the perfect way forward.
Stepping onto the campus of Aurum Heights University was both exhilarating and terrifying. I clutched the strap of my bag tightly, my knuckles turning white as I tried to block out the buzz of chatter and movement all around me. Crowds made my chest tighten, my breath shallow. I couldn't help but feel insecure and off-guard, with the brimming sunlight not helping much in my situation. Everything here felt perfect and somehow royal; maybe it was just because of the exterior, design, or arrangements, I wasn't sure. All over here were boys and girls, not just Americans; I could tell there were people from all around the globe, judging by the different accents and appearances that rolled in from everywhere. Mostly, people were in groups. Boys were pulling little stunts—actually, stupid stunts—here and there, whether with girls or skateboards or things like that. It was laughable, really—their need for validation, their desperation to be seen.
I had no interest in being part of their little world. I moved through the crowd like a shadow, unnoticed and unbothered. Let them have their laughter, their stunts, their perfect little illusions. I wasn't here to entertain, to impress, or to connect. I wasn't here for them at all.
By the time I reached the administration building, the campus was quieter than I'd expected. The rush of orientation week had passed, and the semester was already in full swing. Most students were either in class or scattered across the sprawling courtyards and libraries. For me, arriving late wasn't a mistake—it was just how things had to be. I moved quickly, ignoring the pang of unease gnawing at the back of my mind. Inside the administration building, the air was still, almost too calm. The counters that had likely been swarmed with students a few weeks ago were now manned by staff who looked relieved to have their desks back in order. I approached one of them, a woman whose sharp glasses and clipped tone gave off an air of efficiency. She glanced up as I stopped in front of her.
"Newbie," she said, her tone neutral but not unkind.
"Name?"
"Aleena," I replied, handing over my documents.
She flipped through them briefly, nodding to herself. "Late enrollment. You'll have to catch up on your own," she remarked, sliding a folder across the counter toward me. "Your schedule, a map of the campus, and a list of professors you might need to meet. I suggest you start as soon as possible."
I took the folder and nodded. "Alright, then," I said shortly.
I didn't bother with small talk or apologies. She had a job to do, and I wasn't here to waste anyone's time, least of all my own. Even in here, students moved in small groups, some laughing, others rushing to their next lecture. I was the odd one out, the latecomer, the one who had missed the introductions and first impressions. But that didn't bother me. I didn't need their approval or their friendship. I'd find my way, on my terms, even if it meant starting from behind.
Three so-called "spoiled rich girls"—I didn't have to be particularly observant to see this—blocked my path as I headed toward the classroom assigned on my schedule. They walked close—far too close—invading my space with a suffocating presence that set my nerves on edge. I froze, feeling exposed, vulnerable. Tight knots coiled in the pit of my stomach, but I refused to show them fear. Only strong minds and hearts make it through the trials of life. And I am determined to write my own destiny, even if it means living through my weaknesses while pretending I have none. I inhaled sharply, forcing myself to stay composed.
"Ah, newbie. I see. Babe, your 'fashion' screams 'broke'," she sneered, dragging the word like she was the queen of trash-spotting. "My family hosts charity auctions, you know. Just saying—with pure sympathy."
Bitch. I could ruin that made-up face so badly no plastic surgeon could fix it. But I didn't want attention or drama. Being the target on day one? Not on my list. Day one wasn't for making headlines. I lowered my head, gripping my files so tight my knuckles turned white. Control. Breathe. Get through this. The less you stand out, the less you suffer. Take it easy, and you can move away from these girls, oops, bitches; away from those striking feelings. Let them think they've won.
Her sidekick chimed in with a mocking laugh, flipping her flawless hair over her shoulder. "You should be grateful, you know," she said with fake sweetness. "She doesn't offer just anyone her charity."
Bitch. Every nerve in my body screamed for release, to snap back, to do something—anything—but I held it all in. Barely.
The third girl, quieter but equally venomous, leaned casually against the wall, her gaze cutting through me like I was an insect pinned under glass. "She's probably too shy to say thank you," she said, her smirk dripping with condescension. "Nia Blake—keep that name in mind, if you're ever desperate enough to need charity." She flicked her hand toward their leader—the one who'd blocked my way first, clearly the richest of the trio.
I took in every detail of her, committing it to my mental 'someday-favor-return' list. Black hair that matched her piercing dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a face that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. Perfect. Too perfect. I wondered how she'd react if someone threw ice water at her. People like her thrive on appearances, always terrified of the truth slipping out. Her clothes? Short and tight, showing off her model figure—no different from the other two standing beside her. But the way she carried herself, the way she smirked like she owned the air I was breathing... yeah, she stood out. Another rich, popular girl from university—the kind I'd firmly place in the 'totally spoiled brats' category. I lowered my face further and slipped past them as the trio chuckled at their little stunt. Who cares!
When I entered the classroom, bang! All eyes turned to me—Latecomer, making her grand entrance even later than expected. The weight of the stares hit me like a brick wall, suffocating and heavy. For one moment, the air seemed to vanish, as if oxygen had been rationed and the room was full of takers. All of this happened because of those bitches; I should have smashed their little pride, for once I should have left my mask. I can outrun my phobia. I can outrun my phobia. I can.
"Miss?" The professor's voice sliced through the air, commanding and sharp. He was a young man, his steely gray eyes boring into me like they could uncover every mistake I'd ever made.
"Headlines of the day: a latecomer arrives too late to her very first class. Brilliant start." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it further, his tone dripping with habitual sarcasm, as if it were second nature. "Anyway, why don't you grace us with a little introduction? Enlighten the room, if you will."
Poor man, really. It seemed he had made a career of sarcasm—and unfortunately for him, today's target was me. I straightened, keeping my expression cold and unreadable. "Aleena Rae Hayes," I said smoothly, my voice steady despite the weight of their attention. "I'm new here."
The professor raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "That's it? No hobbies? No aspirations? Nothing to make us remember you?"
Before I could respond, scattered whispers broke the silence, a few muffled chuckles rippling across the room. I ignored them, meeting the professor's gaze without flinching. "Well, Aleena Hayes," he said, sighing dramatically, "thank you for that captivating introduction. Take a seat before we waste any more time."
Scanning the room, I saw only one empty seat, tucked in the back corner. Too far to avoid all eyes and too close to the crowd that made my heart pound. My legs felt stiff, heavy as stone, but I forced myself to move, ignoring the stares and whispers that trailed behind me. One step at a time, Aleena. You're fine. My hands were trembling, but I gripped my files tightly, trying to push the growing panic aside. The crowded room pressed in on me, like the walls were closing. The noise of the room was too loud, the mass too close—but I wouldn't let it show. Sliding into the seat, I forced myself to focus on my breathing. The whispers didn't stop, but I tuned them out. They didn't matter. None of this did. Let them stare, let them whisper. They'd all learn soon enough to mind their own business. The lecture continued, and so did the wild staring contest and whispers about me.
As soon as the class ended, I strode out. Not wanting people to gather around for fancy formalities or out of natural curiosity. Let them stick to me being weird and strange. That's a better option for me. For everyone. I can't remember a time when breathing felt easy. Not exactly. It was always like this, suffocating in a way that never dulled, never settled. Each time felt new, fresh in its torment. But at least I was out now. The air wasn't pure, but it was better—better than the stale weight pressing down in that room. Fresh air was on my plate, at least for now. I didn't want trouble.
I didn't want attention.
I just wanted to get through the day without someone breathing too close. But the world rarely gives what you want. "Lost again, mystery girl?" I paused. Nia Blake.
The queen bitch of this place. How could I forget her! She and her two sidekicks stood in front of me like they owned the pavement. We'd met briefly earlier when I passed her in a hallway and I'd played it cool—lucky for her. Apparently, that was enough to make me a target. After all, classy girls live on money, not brains.
"Since you missed the fun this morning," Nia said, flipping her hair, "you owe us."
"Owe you?" I repeated flatly. Enough for today.
She smirked. "A dare. A tradition. Welcome to the pit." I followed her stare to the edge of campus — where engines screamed and smoke curled in the air like a warning. All testosterone, sweat, a cheering mess. The bike pit. No thanks. I already knew what was coming.
"Bike. Helmet. One loop. That's all. Or," she smiled wider, "we can just call you the girl who backed out."
Normally, I wouldn't care.
Normally, I'd walk away. But I was already hanging by a thread. The crowd. The noise. The heat. It was eating at me like rust. I didn't want to win.
I didn't want to prove anything. I just wanted to breathe.
"Fine," I said.
The pit smelled like oil, metal, and bad decisions. Engines roared. Laughter echoed. The crowd leaned over barriers like they were watching a blood sport. I changed behind an old supply shed. Pulled on a black riding jacket, gloves, a full-face helmet. My hair was tucked, hidden tight. No skin. No softness. No one would see me. No one would know. Perfect.
I walked into the pit like a ghost — quiet, unnoticed. And picked a red bike that looked fast but angry. Its owner didn't question it, just handed me the helmet and said, "Try not to kill yourself." I nodded once. Didn't speak. Pray, dude, I don't kill you, seeing that smug expression. Helmet on. Engine lit. The plan was simple: one slow loop, get it over with, disappear. But the second I hit the track, everything shifted. The crowd was too loud.
The sun was too bright.
The heat pressed in around me like a cage. My breath tightened. My pulse jumped. My grip on the throttle turned to steel. And suddenly—
I couldn't go slow. Damn. Slow down. Slow down. No spotlight. Breathe. I can. I can. I can. I have to. But I didn't know how! I took the turn hard. Tires squealed. Wind ripped past me. I passed one rider. Then two. Then all of them. Something inside me cracked open — wild and cold and electric. Unstoppable. I raced. Not for them.
Not for attention. But because I had to. Because the only way to breathe was to move fast enough to outrun the world. And then I passed him. Black bike. Clean form. Controlled.
Someone who knew what he was doing.
He moved like this was his track. But I moved faster. I didn't know who he was. Just another guy in black. Until I passed him. Clean. Like it was nothing. But something about his bike, something from his boots to his helmet, screamed expensive, power, and utter dominance. The engine died with a final growl.
Silence followed like a shadow. My heartbeat was still sprinting. My hands ached from how hard I'd held on. For a second, it was just me. The bike. The track. The leftover hum of adrenaline in my bones. And then I felt it. Eyes.
Everywhere. The weight of them settled on my shoulders like heat. It crawled down my spine. Wrapped around my throat. Making headlines for the day had not been my plan. Was it?
Now the entire pit was looking at me as if I'd just lit the track on fire. I should've walked away.
I should've kept the helmet on. But I didn't. I pulled it off. Because I couldn't breathe, not after this adrenaline-fueled stunt and the pressing mass, especially the burning sunlight weren't helping much in my situation. And thanks to the helmet for blocking any leftover loophole for air passage. My hair fell out — soft, shoulder-length curls tumbling loose, clinging to my neck with sweat. And the second it happened—
the pit went still. A shift in the air, sharp and sudden. No one spoke. But I heard it anyway. The whispers. The realization.
They didn't know I was a girl. Now they did. Spotlight.
Right on me. Exactly what I didn't want. And then—
I saw him. The last rider I'd passed. He stood across the pit like the silence belonged to him.
Tall. Clean lines. Dark gear.
Helmet already off, held at his side like it never mattered. His face looked like it belonged in a painting.
Sharp jaw. Perfect mouth.
Gray eyes that looked at me as if I wasn't just someone he was seeing— as if I were someone he was remembering. He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just stared.
As if he'd been waiting for this moment.
As if he knew I'd come. I didn't know him.
Didn't care. I turned away. Helmet under my arm. Jacket zipped. Head down.
Back into the crowd.
Back into the noise. But the spotlight followed.
As if it were stitched to my skin.
As if the air itself wouldn't let me disappear. And even with my back turned—
I knew he was still watching.