Typical Morning

Lexi’s mornings had a rhythm — a broken, bitter rhythm.

She woke with her cheek pressed to cold wood. A low rumble echoed from the street below — a delivery truck maybe, or someone yelling again. The air smelled faintly of mold and burnt oil. The desk beneath her was scattered with half-marked essays, a cracked phone, and a coffee-stained timetable. Her hoodie stuck to her skin; she'd slept in it again. Her fingers ached from clenching all night.

Her room wasn’t part of the campus dorms. It never had been. She’d once hoped the dorms might be different. A place to belong. But applications got 'lost', emails were 'missed', and the dorm supervisor — Ms. Nur — never bothered to hide her disdain. She liked making white girls squirm. Lexi learned that her first week.

So she lived off-campus in Varellon Heights — a crumbling stack of apartments where the elevator hadn't worked in months, where the lights flickered even on good days, and the water ran rust-red after heavy rain. Her rent was barely manageable, paid in dented rolls of Vallex — the rebranded digital currency that had replaced the Calvesian Gulden “to reflect social equity,” as the Equity Council had declared.

And her landlord, Mr. Hanif — bloated, always sweating, with the breath of spoiled meat — had stopped her that morning outside the stairwell.

“You’re behind again,” he said, voice slick. “Three weeks. That’s a lot of Vallex.”

“I know,” Lexi muttered. “I just need a few more days.”

His eyes dragged over her. "You don’t belong with the rich girls anyway. Not when you got something real to offer. Little snowbunny like you? You got other ways to pay. You think they’ll ever respect you over there?"

Lexi’s jaw locked. Her mouth stayed shut, but her skin burned with rage and shame. She felt the heat rise behind her eyes and pressed her nails into her palm.

Hanif leaned in slightly. "Think about it. I could clear your tab tonight. Just knock."

She didn’t answer. She turned and walked. Fast. Her heart hammered all the way down the street.

His laugh followed her. Greasy. Knowing. Predatory.

Lexi didn’t answer. She turned and walked. Fast.

His laugh followed her down the street.

Two jobs. One in the archive basement, sorting damaged books. The other cleaning offices after hours. No student ID ever came to check on her. No one asked where she slept.

Her stomach growled. She’d stretch her last credits for powdered broth and rice cakes. Again. She’d stretch her last credits for powdered broth and rice cakes. Again.

Seventeen placements. That’s what the social worker once said — before she stopped counting. Foster homes. Group housing. 'Emergency kinship reassignments.' No one kept her. White girls weren’t worth the paperwork. Especially not the quiet ones. Especially not now.

“You’re not the right kind of broken,” one woman told her once. “People don’t know what to do with a girl like you.”

She didn’t cry then. Or ever. She read. She worked. She outscored nearly every student in the Havenridge applicant pool. But test scores didn’t matter — not really. Not when the scholarships went elsewhere.

“We prioritize transformative narratives.”“Our funding aims to repair generational harm.”“We’re not excluding you. We’re just being intentional.”

Translation: You’re not our priority. You’re not symbolic enough.

Still, she made it in. Because numbers didn’t lie. Because she didn’t just knock — she kicked in the door. And then worked two jobs to keep herself afloat. When she showed up for orientation, a few students blinked. One girl asked, 'Are you here for facilities?' Another assumed she was someone's assistant. No one asked her name.

But she never belonged.

Not when the lectures turned to race and legacy and unearned privilege — and all eyes found her.

Not when professors praised inclusion, and peers asked if she’d ever been someone’s 'learning opportunity.'

Not even when Amara held her hand. Whispered that she was brave. Promised she saw her.

She used to think that was love.

Now she wasn’t sure if Amara had ever meant it — or just liked the idea of claiming a stray.

Simone had never been kind either. Her critiques in class were brutal, often public. "Careless structure," "uninspired perspective," "typical fallback reasoning." Lexi had memorized every blow. Simone had always spoken like fairness was a gift, not a right. Like Lexi should be grateful to be tolerated at all.

She hated herself for still wanting to be accepted by them.

She hated herself more for still missing Amara.

Lexi arrived breathless. The buses weren’t running on time — again — and after waiting nearly twenty minutes in the freezing wind, she had given up and walked. Nearly five kilometers. Uphill. Her coat was too thin for the weather. Her bag strap dug into her shoulder, and her laces were untied. Her legs ached. Her fingers had lost feeling. And now she was here — too late, again.

But it was already over.

The hall was thinning, the crowd dispersing. The speech was done. The vote had passed.

Anjali stood like the whole stage belonged to her, flanked by Zhen and Xia, posing for someone’s stream. Her voice carried effortlessly, polished and theatrical.

When she saw Lexi, her smile sharpened.

“Oh Lexi,” she called out, her tone dipped in syrup and steel. “Shame you missed it — I just won the student presidency. But I’m sure you’ll catch the highlights online.”

Laughter rippled nearby. Zara smirked. "She probably thinks she still gets a vote," she muttered. Xia rolled her eyes.

Lexi’s face flushed, but she said nothing.

Behind her, Amara took a step forward — a breath caught in her chest — the beginning of a word on her lips. But Simone appeared beside her. Just one hand, gently touching her arm. Amara’s lips parted — a silent protest, maybe — then closed again. Nothing forceful.

And Amara stopped. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at Lexi again.

Lexi watched it all with hollow anticipation. Her palms had already gone clammy. Here it comes, she thought. The public lecture. The warning shot. The next round of humiliation.

But then, Simone appeared — emerging behind the small crowd of girls that had gathered like a smug little jury. Her heels clicked once against the tile, sharp enough to break the air. Her gaze swept over the group, unreadable.

She stepped forward with quiet command. Her presence alone was enough to make Zara and Xia fall back a step, their mockery faltering. Even Anjali blinked, just once.

"Enough," Simone said, calm but final.

The girls hesitated — then dispersed, muttering. Amara lingered a moment longer, her eyes flitting between Lexi and Simone. But Simone’s voice cut through the moment again — this time sharper, less patient. “Amara. You’re dismissed too.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. Amara’s jaw tightened. She didn’t speak. Then she turned and left without another glance.

Simone turned to Lexi.

She didn’t smile with mockery. Not with cruelty. Just… soft. "You’re not invisible," she said. "Not to me."

Lexi blinked.

Simone stepped closer, her voice quieter. "After the instructional blocks today — Office 204. Come by. I’d like to talk to you."

No command. No performance. Just an invitation.

Lexi’s throat tightened. She nodded once.

Simone didn’t wait for a reply. She simply turned and walked away — but just before disappearing into the side corridor, she glanced back at Lexi and smiled. It wasn’t wide, but it was real. "Thank you," she said softly. "I look forward to it."

Simone never smiled like that in class. Not at me.

Lexi stood there, hands buried in her sleeves, shoulders hunched against a wind that wasn’t there.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more — being invisible for so long, or realizing someone had finally noticed.

She didn’t trust it. But she needed it. Maybe she was the wrong kind of broken — but for a second, it felt like someone didn’t care.