Committee Seat

The student council chamber smelled faintly of lemon polish and dry-erase markers. Long tables formed a square at the center of the room, ringed by chairs with navy-blue upholstery worn smooth by years of debate. A projector hummed quietly near the back wall, casting its idle light across the floor.

Sarah stood just inside the doorway, clutching a folder to her chest. Her name had been listed on the agenda—last-minute nomination, under "New Appointments."

She hadn't expected applause. But when her name was read aloud and a few scattered claps echoed off the walls, something inside her shifted.

Mia watched from the hallway, behind a pane of frosted glass. From her angle, the room looked abstract—shapes and silhouettes blurred by texture. But she could still make out Sarah's posture: stiff, then slowly settling into the chair closest to the southeast corner.

The chair Mia had angled for her in quiet, invisible ways.

Sarah opened her folder. Inside were notes—carefully prepared talking points and policy overviews Mia had helped source. But only Sarah would speak them. That was the deal.

Inside the room, the chair tapped the gavel once. "Let's begin."

Names were called. Minutes approved. Budgets skimmed. When it came time for introductions, Sarah rose with halting grace.

"I'm Sarah Lin," she said. "Second-year, focus in policy studies. I'm here… to learn. And help, if I can."

Mia couldn't hear the exact tone, but the room's silence told her everything. There was attention. Not dismissal.

Sarah sat down.

Discussion resumed. Slides changed. A student in a striped hoodie raised a motion about event funding. Someone else countered. The chair nodded, taking notes.

And through it all, Sarah watched. Listened. Tilted her head slightly when something didn't make sense. Scribbled two words in her notebook: "clarify later."

Mia leaned against the wall, arms folded, letting herself smile.

This was Sarah's space now.

The work of holding space wasn't loud. It was placement. Timing. Shadows and light.

Sarah asked one question before the session ended—about public access to council minutes. A small question. But clear. Unflinching.

The chair nodded. "Noted."

There was a pause, then someone near the front added, "We've actually been meaning to streamline that. Glad you brought it up."

That second sentence was where it changed. Sarah's comment had not just landed—it had nudged something forward.

Mia caught the edge of a grin pulling at her mouth.

Meeting adjourned.

Papers shuffled. Laptops closed. Voices rose in low, casual conversation.

Sarah lingered at the table, running her fingers lightly along the wood grain. She didn't rush to leave. Instead, she reread the notes in her folder, flipping one page back, then another.

A pen rolled off the table nearby. She bent to retrieve it and handed it back to the student who'd dropped it.

"Thanks," he said, slightly surprised.

"No problem," Sarah replied, her voice calm.

The chair she'd sat in was no longer foreign. It didn't creak beneath her or resist her weight. It simply was.

She traced the edge of her notebook, glancing at the gavel resting near the front. It looked heavier than it was—symbol more than tool. But still, she didn't flinch from it.

Outside, Mia stepped back before the door opened.

The hallway smelled faintly of eucalyptus and concrete dust. Someone nearby was repainting a hallway.

Sarah stepped out into the brightness. She looked left, then right, not searching, just orienting.

Mia didn't follow tonight.

But she listened.

Because when Sarah walked through the quad ten minutes later, she paused—just once—to glance at her reflection in a darkened window.

And she smiled.

In that smile, Mia saw the smallest echo of strength—something solid that hadn't been there before.

She stayed just long enough to see Sarah cross the courtyard and disappear into the deeper side of the commons.

Later that night, as lights dimmed and doors locked, Mia passed through the empty chamber again. She paused beside the chair Sarah had occupied, her fingers resting briefly on its backrest.

There was warmth there still. Not literal. Not measurable. But a trace of presence.

She left no note.

No sign.

But she adjusted the chair just slightly, so it aligned perfectly again with the table.

It mattered.

Because Sarah would sit there again.

And next time, she wouldn't just ask a question.

She'd shape the answer.

On her way out, Mia noticed the whiteboard near the corner had been erased hastily, still streaked with residue. She reached for the cloth left beside it and cleaned it properly—slow, circular motions until it gleamed.

She tucked the marker back into its holder and straightened the agenda papers left behind.

When she closed the door behind her, it made no sound.

And the room—clean, still, expectant—was ready for Sarah's return.

As Mia stepped into the night air, the echo of her own movements fading behind her, she allowed herself one last glance at the building's dim facade.

Behind one upper window, a desk lamp glowed faintly. Sarah, maybe. Or someone else preparing, learning.

That was enough.

Mia adjusted the collar of her coat against the wind. It was sharper now, the season shifting again. But beneath it, she felt something warmer—movement, traction.

In the distance, laughter rang out. Not hers. Not Sarah's. But it didn't matter. The world was moving. And for the first time in a long while, it was moving in rhythm.

She crossed the quad slowly, pausing under the oldest tree at its center. The bark had been carved by decades of initials and quiet declarations. Mia ran her fingers over one groove, half-erased by time.

"Present," she whispered. Not to be heard. Just to mark it.

And as the last lights of the council building dimmed behind her, Mia slipped into the quiet edge of the campus path.

Tomorrow, Sarah would return. And Mia would be nearby—no longer holding the map.

Just ensuring it stayed open.

Somewhere nearby, wind picked up a stray page—an extra printout left from the meeting—and rustled it across the sidewalk.

Mia reached down and pinned it under her shoe.

She smoothed the paper flat, noting the lines where minutes would be filled in.

Blank now.

But soon, Sarah's words would begin to appear.

And Mia smiled—just briefly—before letting the paper go.

It fluttered away into the dark like a bird just barely taking flight.

The night didn't pause. But Mia did. Just long enough to whisper:

"Keep going."