Elegance in Motion

The corridors were quiet, but the dining hall buzzled softly with clinking trays and low conversation. Lunch hour had settled over the school like a brief, golden pause.

Girls in white aprons moved swiftly between tables, keeping up appearances. The hosts, chosen earlier that week, worked with polished grace. Their hair was tied, uniforms crisp, eyes scanning for every cue.

As the main entrance, Cynthia and Angela, stood flanking the doors. They nodded in rhythm as the St. Peter's and St. Andrew's boys entered-blazers sharp, eyes curious.

"They really look like they came out of a magazine," Cynthia whispered under her breath.

Angela nudged her. "Keep your thoughts holy."

Across the room, Jennifer, now changed back into her formal school wear, was pouring juice into a silver jug. Her fingers still felt warm from the tension of Physics Club, from the eyes that had locked on her-his eyes.

Kevin.

He wore ease like a uniform. He glanced up-and his gaze found Jennifer across the hall like it had been looking for her.

Jennifer didn't look away. She didn't smile either.

Angela joined her near the serving corner, picking up two clean trays.

"Someone's famous now," she said, eyes sliding toward Kevin . "You should've seen his face when you answered that question."

Jennifer scoffed, but her lips twitched.

"He was just...surprised," she said.

"No," Angela said, adjusting her tray. "He was impressed."

Cynthia cut in with a smirk, "Oh , definitely. And the long hair."

A sudden hush fell over the dining hall.

At the front, near the staircase that overlooked the room like a small balcony, stood the principle, Sister Margret, in a dark green suit that softened her stern features. Beside her was Father Joseph, their beloved school priest, his white collar gleaming under the overhead light.

Sister Margret raised a hand. "I wasn't present this morning to welcome our visitors from St. Peter's and St. Andrew's," she said, her voice firm yet warm. "But I hope our girls have shown you the grace and hospitality of Our Lady of Fatima.

There was a polite round of applause.

" This afternoon," she continued," our entertainment program begins. Please follow the schedule-starting with performances in the music room, followed by the fashion show in the main hall. Our prefects will guide you . We hope you enjoy yourselves."

The teachers seated around the room nodded approvingly.

Angela leaned toward Jennifer. "Showtime."

Jennifer exhaled slowly and looked at her tray.

The late afternoon light slanted through the high arched windows of the hall, catching on the polished floors and giving everything a soft golden hue. The seats were full now, mostly with Form Four students from both Fatima and the visiting schools, St. Peter's and St. Andrew's. A quiet murmur rolled across the room-the kind of excitement only seniors could understand. No giggling juniors here. This was their moment.

The entertainment began with witty skits that played on everyday life in the dorms, cleverly performed by students from both Fatima and St. Peter's. One skit featured an over-the-top prefect trying to enforce lights out with a torch and whistle, while two girls pretended to sneak in contraband mangoes from the school fence. The hall rippled with sharpened by senior wit.

Next came spoken word and poems, filled with depth and rhythm . Lines about girlhood, growing up under quiet pressure, and learning to rise. Then came a duo from St. Andrew's who performed a mock fashion commentary on school uniforms, poking fun at their "universal tie of suffering" and oversized blazers-drawing loud applause from both boys and girls.

And then... the lights dimmed slightly. A soft instrumental filled the space. It was time...

The fashion showcase.

Angela and Maria were among the first to grace the catwalk. They stepped onto the stage together, poised, regal. Angela wore a long, flowing midnight-blue dress that shimmered like moonlight, her walk smooth and confident. Their steps echoed lightly on the runway, and the hall filled with impressed murmurs and quick flashes of cameras.

Others followed-some in elegant Ankara blends that proudly flaunted African heritage, others in soft chiffon layered like clouds. One girl wore a tailored white suit with red embroidery tracing down the sleeves, bold and stunning. Their grace was quiet but powerful. Each one brought their own light to the stage.

The boys from St. Andrew's and St. Peter's were invited next, joining in with style. Tall, confident figures emerged, dressed in sharp suits, patterned jackets, even traditional capes-their shoes polished to mirrors. When Kevin appeared, clad in a deep charcoal suit with a rose pinned at his lapel, the hall stirred. A few girls near the front gasped and whispered. Someone muttered, "He looks like a celebrity."

He walked like he knew-but didn't need to prove it.

Then the lights shifted again. A soft glow bathed the stage in silver-blue as Cynthia stepped forward.

She wore a flowing white gown, delicate gloves hugging her wrists, and sheer white glasses perched with elegance. A slim earpiece mic curved gracefully to her lips. She stood alone, poised at the center of the stage, every inch the second star of the evening.

The soft instrumental of "Dream It Possible" began.

And then her voice filled the hall.

It was soft at first-tender, trembling like light over still water. Then it grew, steady, angelic, rising with quiet power. The lyrics floated over the audience, heavy with hope and fire. "I will chase, I will reach, I will fly..."

A hush blanketed the room.

From the side, Brian leaned slightly, his gaze fixed on Cynthia, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Just a seat away, Angela sat still, her posture composed, but her eyes held something sharp-fixed entirely on Cynthia as well. Neither spoke, but the air between them shimmered with a silent understanding: they were both watching the same girl, for every different reasons.

As Cynthia's final note rose, held, and faded, a ripple of applause swept through the audience. Her voice lingered in the air, like perfume after a goodbye. She bowed slightly, smiled, and stepped aside.

And then... the lights dipped.

Soft instrumental swelled again-this time, something grand, slow, celestial.

From the edge of the private garden curtains, a figure emerged.

Jennifer.

She stepped onto the stage like she belonged in a dream. Her gown was a floor-length creation in shimmering soft-bronze, with pearl accents that dusted her shoulders like falling stardust. Her silhouette floated, light as wind, her hair cascading down in loose waves, a single delicate rose pinned just behind her ear.

She didn't just walk. She glided.

Every pair of eyes followed her. For a moment, the whole hall forgot to breathe.

Angela's mouth parted slightly. Even Cynthia stood still, her hands folded, watching. The choir teacher whispered to someone, "She looks like an angel."

At the back of the room, Miss Emily remained silent, her arms folded over her chest, eyes locked on Jennifer. Her lips were pressed in a straight line-unreadable-but something shimmered in her gaze. Pride? Pain? Possession?

Kevin, seated near the St. Peter's table, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His lips parted, eyes unable to leave her.

The music swelled higher.

And Jennifer walked-proud, graceful, radiant-like she wasn't just a student, but something more. Miss Our Lady of Fatima. The final model. The crown of the evening.

The hall dimmed softly, leaving only the glow of the stage lights. Jennifer stepped forward, her gown catching the light like water under moonlight. With quiet grace, she settled onto the piano bench, her fingers brushing the keys as if greeting an old friend. A hush fell over the crowd as the first notes rose-tender, deliberate, echoing with emotion. Then her voice, clear and silken, drifted out, filling the hall with the haunting melody of "Rewrite the Stars."

And then-unexpectedly- a deep bass voice joined her from among the seated boys.

Heads turned.

There, rising slowly from the crowd, was Kevin.

He didn't rush. He didn't need to. His tall frame moved with quiet confidence, each step up the aisle drawing more eyes. As he reached the stage, Jennifer's fingers never faltered. She watched him, her voice steady, her gaze unreadable-but glowing.

Kevin stepped onto the platform and stood beside the piano, his voice syncing perfectly with hers. Their eyes locked. For a moment, the stage belonged only to them.

A duet-seamless, powerful full of something unspoken.