The girl in the shadow

The sound of piano keys filled the tiny apartment, each note delicate yet heavy, like raind on glass. Amara's fingers glided over the worn-out keys, playing a melody no one had ever heard before—because it belonged to her alone. A song of loneliness. A song of survival.

She closed her eyes, letting the music drown out the growling in her stomach. Hunger was familiar now. An old friend. Some nights, she got by with nothing but a cup of water. Other nights, if she was lucky, she'd take home leftovers from the café where she worked. But today wasn't one of those lucky nights.

Sighing, she pulled her coat tighter around her thin frame. It was old, barely warm, but it was all she had. The apartment was freezing, the single bulb flickering above her. Rent was due next week, and she was still short. Tuition? She didn't even think about that anymore. She was behind on payments, and any day now, she could lose her place atRavenswood University—the only thing keeping her connected to her father's legacy.

The only thing keeping her from completely disappearing.

At Ravenswood University

The campus was a world of its own—a place where power was everything. Money decided your worth. Influence determined your future. And Amara? She was a ghost.

She walked through the crowded halls, keeping her head down, hugging her books close. Eyes followed her, whispers trailed behind her like shadows. Some admired her beauty. Others resented her existence.

"She doesn't belong here."

"I bet she's looking for a rich guy to pay her tuition."

"She'd probably doanythingfor money."

She had heard it all before. The rumors never stopped.

Some boys saw her as a challenge. A poor, desperate girl with nowhere to go? Easy prey. They'd flash their expensive watches, lean against their luxury cars, and smirk as they made their offers—some subtle, some not.

"You know, I could take care of you."

"Just one night, Amara. How hard could it be?"

"Why struggle when you could have everything?"

She never responded. She never reacted. That cold, unreadable mask was all she had to protect herself.

Even some professors treated her differently—some with pity, some with interest that made her stomach turn.

Professor Wells, an older man with graying hair, always sighed when she walked into his class. "Amara, have you eaten today?" he asked once, glancing at the dark circles under her eyes. She had lied, of course.

Professor Collins, on the other hand, was different. The way his eyes lingered, the way he offered "extra help" after class, made her skin crawl. She avoided him as much as possible.

At lunchtime, she sat alone on a bench outside, watching students laugh, eat, and live the life she had lost. Her pockets were empty, and the cafeteria prices were cruel.

So, she swallowed her pride and drank water to keep the hunger away.

Classes. Work. Survival. That was her routine. That was her life.

The streets of the city were just as cruel as the university halls. In a place where everyone was chasing power and wealth, a girl like Amara was invisible—unless someone wanted something from her.

By evening, she was at the café, her second job of the day. The bell jingled as customers walked in and out, laughing, ordering drinks she could never afford, talking about vacations, parties, lives so far removed from her reality that it almost felt like a different world.

She wiped tables, forced a polite smile, and ignored the occasional wandering hands of businessmen who thought a waitress was easy to touch. She needed the job. She needed the money. Complaints weren't an option.

"Hey, sweetheart," a man slurred as she placed his coffee on the table. His suit was expensive, his wedding ring hidden in his pocket. "Why don't you sit with me for a while?"

Amara straightened, keeping her expression blank. "I have work to do."

He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "I'll pay double for your time."

Her stomach turned. She turned away without another word, her hands shaking slightly as she grabbed another order. It was always the same. Some men assumed poverty made her easy. Some assumed silence meant interest. She had learned to ignore it. To keep moving. To survive.

After her shift, she walked home in the cold, her fingers numb, her stomach empty. The city lights blurred in her vision, but she kept going. One more day survived. One more battle won.

But she knew the war wasn't over.

Her apartment was barely more than a box—a single room with a mattress on the floor, a small desk, and a piano she refused to sell, no matter how desperate she became. It was all she had left of her father. The only thing in her life that still felt like home.

She sat down, letting her fingers brush over the keys. Music had always been her escape. When she played, she wasn't the poor girl struggling to survive. She wasn't the girl people whispered about in the halls. She wasn't the girl men thought they could buy.

She was just Amara. Just a girl and her piano.

The melody filled the small room, soft and haunting. A song of loss. A song of pain. A song only she could understand.

Then, for a brief moment, the hunger, the exhaustion, the loneliness—all of it disappeared.

But it never lasted.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A message from the university office. Her tuition deadline was approaching. No payment meant expulsion.

Amara closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. She had fought too hard to get here. She wouldn't lose it now. She couldn't.

But how long could she keep fighting alone?