Chapter 2 : Eyes on Me

The moment Amara slid into her seat, her pulse still thumping in her ears, she knew she wasn't safe—not even in the back row.

Her backpack dropped beside her with a soft thud as she tried to make herself invisible. Her eyes were on the desk, but she could feel it—the stares, the judgment. Like laser beams slicing through her skin. Being late in high school wasn't just about a missed attendance mark—it was social suicide. Especially in nursing class, where perfection was the bare minimum.

The silence was short-lived.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Miss…?"

The voice at the front of the room was cold and sharp, like steel.

Amara's head snapped up. Her heart sank.

Mrs. Holland. The Human Anatomy lecturer. Known for her icy glare and zero tolerance for tardiness.

Amara tried to speak, but her throat locked up. The entire class had turned to look at her now. No longer whispers—just open silence, watching, waiting.

"James, ma'am," she croaked.

Mrs. Holland arched a brow, lips pursed. "Ah. Miss James. Our future Florence Nightingale." The sarcasm hit harder than any insult.

Laughter bubbled up from the front rows. A few students snickered.

"Tell me, Miss James," the lecturer continued, folding her arms, "were you conducting overnight surgery? Or simply testing how many seconds it takes to make an entire class roll their eyes?"

Amara felt her cheeks flame. Her palms were sweaty. She opened her mouth, but no words came. She didn't want to explain that she'd woken up late. That her roommates hadn't bothered to wake her. That she hadn't slept properly in weeks. That she was trying.

Trying so hard.

Mrs. Holland didn't wait for an answer. "I suppose you'll catch up eventually. If not, you can always consider another career. Hospitality, perhaps."

More laughter. Someone in the middle row muttered, "Ouch."

Amara sank further into her seat, staring at the scratched surface of her desk. She wanted to melt right into it. Disappear.

Then, a soft voice beside her broke through the noise.

"Don't let her get to you. She just loves the sound of her own voice."

Amara turned slightly. It was the girl sitting next to her—a face she hadn't really noticed before. Warm brown eyes, short curly hair, and a quiet kind of confidence. She didn't smile, but her presence felt steady, like an anchor in rough waters.

"I'm Kelsey," she added, scribbling something quickly in her notebook. "Welcome back to hell."

Amara blinked, surprised by the dry humor. A weak smile crept onto her face before she could stop it.

"I'm Amara," she whispered back.

"Yeah, I know. You're the one who always sits here but never says a word."

Amara chuckled softly, and it felt strange—like her chest had finally exhaled after holding everything in for too long.

The rest of the class moved on in a blur of diagrams and long medical terms, but Amara wasn't really listening. Her head was still spinning from Mrs. Holland's attack. Her heart still ached from the way everyone had laughed. But for the first time that morning, something felt a little less heavy.

She glanced sideways at Kelsey, who was already flipping through her textbook like nothing had happened.

Maybe today wouldn't be all bad.