Rooted in Storms

The first thing I noticed about St. Catherine's Academy for Girls was the smell. Not the usual school smell of floor wax and chalk dust and the particular mustiness of teenagers crammed into small rooms. This was different. Jasmine, maybe. And something older underneath it, like the stone itself was sweating secrets.

I stood at the gate with my suitcase handle digging into my palm and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You're blocking the entrance."

The voice came from behind me. I turned too fast and nearly clipped a girl with my suitcase. She was small, maybe five-two, with a hijab the color of milky coffee wrapped so neatly I could see the individual folds. Her eyes were dark and steady and completely unimpressed by me.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm new."

"I gathered." She stepped around me and through the gate without looking back.

I followed her because I didn't know what else to do.

The courtyard opened up like a held breath. Three stories of gray stone rose on all sides, windows arched and dark, ivy crawling up the eastern wall like it was trying to escape. A fountain sat in the center, dry and filled with dead leaves. Above it, a statue of a woman with her hands clasped and her face worn smooth by weather. Saint Catherine, I assumed. She didn't look like she'd been having a good time.

A few girls in navy uniforms stood in clusters near the doors, watching me with the particular stillness of people who'd already decided what they thought. I kept my eyes forward and my grip tight on my suitcase. Transfer student. Mid-semester. Brown girl in a school that didn't get many of those. I'd done this before. Different city, different country, same calculation running behind every pair of eyes I passed.

*What are you doing here?*

The small girl had disappeared into the building. I stood alone in the courtyard with the dead fountain and the tired saint and tried to figure out where I was supposed to go.

"You look lost."

This voice was different. Warmer. I turned and found a girl leaning against the doorframe of what I later learned was the administrative wing. She was tall, taller than me by a few inches, with olive skin and thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her hijab was a deep burgundy today, wrapped in a style I'd never seen before, all these intricate folds that made it look almost architectural. She was eating an apple and watching me like I was the most interesting thing to happen all week.

"I am lost," I said.

"First day?"

"First hour."

She laughed. It was a good laugh, low and genuine, nothing performative about it. "I'm Noweira. You're the transfer from Manchester, right?"

"Karachi, originally. Manchester for the last three years."

"Karachi." She said it like she was tasting the word. "I've always wanted to visit. The architecture there is supposed to be incredible. All those colonial buildings mixed with modern stuff. Very layered."

I blinked at her. "You know about architecture?"

"I'm going to be an architect." She said it simply, like it was already true. "Or a designer. Something with buildings. I haven't decided yet." She pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me, extending her free hand. "Come on. I'll show you where to drop your stuff. The dorm mother is terrifying but she's got a soft spot for new girls if you look pathetic enough."

"I don't look pathetic."

"Give it five minutes." She grinned. "This place has a way of bringing it out of people."

I followed her into the building. The hallway was long and dim, lined with portraits of women I didn't recognize, all of them staring down with expressions that ranged from severe to openly hostile. Our footsteps echoed off the stone floor. Noweira walked like she owned the place, which I later learned she basically did. Not officially. But everyone knew her. Everyone nodded when she passed.

"So," she said, "what's your deal?"

"My deal?"

"Everyone here has a deal. Some tragic backstory or secret ambition or whatever. It's a boarding school. We're all running from something or toward something." She took another bite of her apple. "Which is it for you?"

I considered lying. I was good at lying. I'd had practice. But something about the way she asked, casual and unbothered, made me want to tell the truth.

"Both," I said. "Running from something. Toward something else. I don't know what yet."

"Fair enough." She stopped in front of a door marked with a tarnished brass plate. "This is the dormitory. Your room is 214. Third floor, end of the hall. The window sticks but if you hit it right it opens. There's a girl in 216 who has a kettle. She'll let you borrow it if you bring your own tea."

"You know a lot about this place."

"I've been here since I was twelve." She said it without self-pity, just fact. "My parents travel a lot. Diplomats. This was easier than dragging me around the world."

"That sounds lonely."

She looked at me then, really looked, and something shifted behind her eyes. "Sometimes," she said. "But you get used to it. And you find people." She gestured vaguely toward the building. "There's a girl here, Laiba. She's in your year. You'll like her. She's quiet but she sees things. And there's Poppy."

"Poppy?"

"The botany teacher. She runs the greenhouse out back. Everyone's a little in love with her." Noweira's mouth curved. "You'll understand when you meet her."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing.

"I have to go," she said. "Student council meeting. But find me at dinner. I'll save you a seat." She turned and walked away, her flats clicking against the stone, and I stood in the hallway with my suitcase and the weight of everything I'd left behind and wondered what I'd just walked into.

Room 214 was small and smelled like dust and old wood. Two beds, two desks, two windows with warped frames. My roommate hadn't arrived yet. Her side was bare, the mattress stripped, the desk empty except for a single dried flower pressed under the glass. I set my suitcase on the other bed and sat down and let myself feel it for a moment. The exhaustion. The fear. The strange electric hum of starting over.

I'd done this before. I could do it again.

The window did stick. I hit it twice with the heel of my hand and it groaned open, letting in cold air and the smell of wet earth. Below, I could see the courtyard and beyond it, a tangle of green that must have been the gardens. A figure moved among the plants, tall and unhurried, carrying something I couldn't make out. I watched until she disappeared behind a shed, then closed the window and went to find the dining hall.

---

Dinner was a disaster.

Not the food, which was edible if uninspired. Not the seating, which I managed to navigate without too much humiliation. The disaster was the girl across from me, who spent the entire meal asking questions in a tone that suggested she already knew the answers and was just testing whether I'd lie.

"So you're from Pakistan."

"Originally."

"But you lived in Manchester."

"For three years."

"Why'd you leave?"

I set down my fork. "Family stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like none of your business."

She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Everyone here has secrets. Yours won't last long."

"I'm not trying to keep secrets. I just don't owe you my life story."

"Fair enough." She leaned back in her chair. "I'm Fatima. I run the school paper. If you're interesting, I'll write about you. If you're not, I'll forget you exist."

"I'd prefer the second option."

"Too late." She stood and walked away, leaving her tray behind.

I sat there with my cooling food and the hum of a hundred conversations and felt the familiar pressure behind my eyes. I wasn't going to cry. I never cried. But the urge was there, pressing against the back of my throat, and I had to swallow it down with a bite of something that might have been chicken.

"You handled that well."

I looked up. The small girl from the gate was standing beside my table, holding her own tray. Up close, I could see the details I'd missed before. The careful way she'd wrapped her hijab. The steadiness in her gaze. The slight curve of her mouth that might have been a smile or might have been something else.

"Can I sit?"

I nodded.

She sat across from me, where Fatima had been, and began eating with the methodical focus of someone who'd learned not to waste time on things that didn't matter.

"I'm Laiba," she said between bites.

"Noweira mentioned you."

"Of course she did." Laiba's mouth curved again, more definitely a smile this time. "She likes to collect people. You're her newest project."

"I'm not a project."

"Everyone's a project to Noweira. She can't help it. She sees someone who needs something and she has to fix it." Laiba paused. "It's not a bad quality. Just exhausting sometimes."

"You've known her long?"

"Since we were twelve. We started the same year." Laiba set down her fork and looked at me with those steady eyes. "You're running from something. I can tell. You have that look."

"What look?"

"Like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like you don't trust anyone to be kind without wanting something in return." She picked up her fork again. "I'm not asking what it is. I'm just saying I recognize it."

I didn't know what to say. So I said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She went back to eating. "The trick to this place is to find your people early. Before the cliques form and the doors close. You've already got Noweira. That's a good start. Now you need someone who'll tell you the truth."

"And that's you?"

"I try to be." She shrugged. "I don't always succeed. But I try."

We ate in silence for a while. The dining hall hummed around us, full of girls in navy uniforms and the clatter of silverware and the particular chaos of institutional meals. I felt something loosen in my chest. Not much. But something.

"Who's Poppy?" I asked.

Laiba looked up. "The botany teacher?"

"Yeah. Noweira mentioned her."

"Ah." Laiba's expression shifted, something complicated moving behind her eyes. "Poppy is... Poppy."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have." She pushed her tray away. "You'll meet her tomorrow. She teaches the advanced biology class. Most of us take it because she's the best teacher in the school. Some of us take it for other reasons."

"What reasons?"

Laiba stood. "You'll understand when you meet her." She picked up her tray. "Goodnight. I'll see you in class."

She walked away before I could ask anything else. I sat alone at the table and watched her go, and I thought about what Noweira had said. *Everyone's a little in love with her.* And what Laiba hadn't said, which was somehow more.

I went back to my room and lay in the dark and listened to the wind rattle the window. My roommate still hadn't arrived. The room felt too big and too small at the same time. I thought about my mother, who I hadn't called in three weeks. I thought about the reason I'd left Manchester, which I wasn't going to think about, which I never thought about. I thought about the way Laiba had looked at me, like she could see through my skin to the thing underneath.

*You're running from something.*

Yes. I was.

I closed my eyes and didn't dream.

---

The advanced biology classroom was at the end of the east wing, tucked behind a door that looked like it hadn't been opened since the Victorian era. I got there early because I always got everywhere early. It was a habit I'd developed after Manchester. Never be late. Never give them a reason to look at you.

The room was small and cluttered, the walls covered in botanical prints and diagrams, the shelves overflowing with jars and specimens and books that looked older than the building. A skeleton hung in the corner, its bones yellowed with age, a dried flower crown perched on its skull. The windows were fogged with condensation. The whole place smelled like soil and something sweet, like flowers left too long in water.

I found a seat near the back and pulled out my notebook. A few other girls trickled in, all of them giving me the same look I'd gotten used to. New girl. Transfer. *What's she doing here?* I ignored them and focused on my notebook, on the blank page that I hadn't written anything on yet.

Then the door opened and Poppy walked in.

I understood immediately. Not everything. But enough.

She was tall, taller than Noweira, with a mass of ginger hair pinned up with what looked like a pencil. Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone had flicked a brush at her and walked away. Round wire-rimmed glasses. A shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with soil. Canvas trousers. Work boots that had seen better decades.

She looked like she'd just come in from the garden and hadn't bothered to change. She looked like she didn't care what anyone thought. She looked like the most alive person I'd ever seen.

"Morning," she said, and her voice was low and rough, like she'd been talking to plants all morning and they were the only ones who understood her. "We have a new student today. Everyone pretend to be normal."

A few girls laughed. I felt my face heat.

"You must be..." She squinted at a piece of paper on her desk. "Amara?"

"Yes."

"Right. Amara." She looked up and her eyes met mine and I forgot how to breathe. "Welcome. We're doing plant physiology this term. If you've done any botany before, you'll be bored. If you haven't, you'll be confused. Either way, try to keep up."

She turned to the board and began writing, her handwriting a messy scrawl that somehow made sense. I watched her hand move, the way her fingers gripped the chalk, the way her sleeve slipped down and she pushed it back up without thinking. I watched her and I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. Something I didn't have a name for.

*Everyone's a little in love with her.*

Now I understood.

---

The class passed in a blur. Poppy talked about photosynthesis and cellular respiration and the way plants communicated through root systems, and I wrote everything down without hearing any of it. I was too aware of her presence, the way she moved through the room, the way she paused at my desk and looked at my notes and said, "You have neat handwriting. That'll serve you well."

After class, I stayed behind. I don't know why. I told myself it was to ask about the syllabus. I told myself it was to introduce myself properly. I told myself a lot of things.

Poppy was at her desk, sorting through papers. She looked up when I approached. "Amara, right?"

"Yes."

"You're the transfer from Manchester."

"Everyone keeps mentioning that."

"It's a small school. News travels fast." She set down her papers and leaned back in her chair. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to introduce myself. Properly."

"Consider yourself introduced." She smiled, and it was a real smile, not the polished one teachers usually gave. "You're taking my class, so we'll be seeing a lot of each other. Do you like plants?"

"I don't know much about them."

"That's not what I asked."

I thought about it. "I like the idea of them. Things that grow without needing to be told how. Things that survive."

Poppy's expression shifted. Something moved behind her eyes, something I couldn't read. "That's a good answer," she said. "Most people say they like flowers because they're pretty. You said something true."

"I try to be honest."

"Do you?" She tilted her head. "Most people don't. Most people tell you what they think you want to hear. It's exhausting."

"I know."

We looked at each other for a moment. The room was quiet, the only sound the drip of water from somewhere, a leak she hadn't fixed. I felt like she was seeing something in me, something I didn't want seen.

"You should come to the greenhouse sometime," she said. "I'm there most afternoons. It's quieter than this place. Good for thinking."

"I might do that."

"Do." She turned back to her papers. "And Amara?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever you're running from. It won't follow you here. This place has its own problems."

I didn't ask how she knew. I just nodded and left.

---

The greenhouse was at the edge of the grounds, past the gardens and the shed and a stretch of overgrown lawn that no one bothered to maintain. It was smaller than I'd expected, a glass structure with a peaked roof and panes that were more fog than transparency. Smoke curled from a chimney at the back. Someone was burning something.

I stood outside for a long time before I knocked. I told myself I was just exploring. I told myself I wasn't there for any particular reason. I told myself a lot of things.

Poppy opened the door. She was wearing the same clothes as before, but now there was dirt on her face, a smudge across her cheek that she hadn't noticed. Her hair had escaped the pencil and was falling around her shoulders in waves of copper.

"You came," she said.

"You said I should."

"I say a lot of things. Most people don't listen." She stepped back. "Come in."

The greenhouse was warm and humid, the air thick with the smell of soil and growing things. Plants lined every surface, some in pots, some in raised beds, some hanging from the ceiling in baskets that swayed slightly when I moved. A wood stove sat in the corner, radiating heat. A kettle whistled on top of it.

"Tea?" Poppy asked.

"Please."

She moved through the space with the ease of long practice, plucking leaves from a plant I didn't recognize and dropping them into a pot. "This is lemon balm. Good for anxiety. You look like you could use some."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." She poured water over the leaves. "But you don't have to talk about it. We can just drink tea and pretend we're normal people having a normal conversation."

"Are you normal?"

"God, no." She laughed, that same low rough sound. "I'm a botanist who runs a failing greenhouse and teaches biology to teenage girls. I'm the least normal person I know."

"Why do you do it? Teach, I mean."

She handed me a mug. The tea was pale green and smelled like summer. "Because I have to do something. And this place..." She gestured vaguely. "It's a job. It pays the bills. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"The greenhouse doesn't pay for itself. I've been trying to keep it running for years. My family used to own it. My grandmother planted the first seeds here." She sat down on a stool and wrapped her hands around her own mug. "It's a long story."

"I have time."

She looked at me then, really looked, and I felt it again. That sense of being seen. Of being known without having said anything.

"You're different," she said. "I don't know how yet. But you are."

"So are you."

"That's not a compliment."

"It wasn't meant to be." I took a sip of tea. "It's just true."

We sat in silence for a while, drinking tea and listening to the drip of water and the rustle of leaves. The stove crackled. Somewhere outside, a bird called. I felt something loosen in my chest, the same thing that had loosened at dinner with Laiba. Not much. But something.

"Why did you come here?" Poppy asked. "Really."

"I told you. Family stuff."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

She nodded slowly. "Fair enough. We all have things we don't talk about." She set down her mug. "But if you ever want to talk about them. I'm here. Most afternoons. The kettle's always on."

I finished my tea and stood to leave. At the door, I turned back. "Poppy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For the tea."

"Thank you for drinking it." She smiled, and it was a real smile, and I felt it in my chest like a bruise. "See you in class."

I walked back to the main building in the dark, my breath fogging in the cold air. The windows of the dormitory glowed warm and yellow. Girls moved behind them, shadows against the light. I thought about Poppy's hands, the way they'd cradled the mug, the way they'd moved among the plants like they belonged there. I thought about the way she'd looked at me, like she was seeing something no one else had seen.

*Everyone's a little in love with her.*

I wasn't in love. I barely knew her. But something had shifted. Something had opened. And I didn't know what to do with it.

---

The weeks passed. I settled into a routine. Classes in the morning, study in the afternoon, dinner with Noweira and Laiba, who had adopted me with a determination that was both touching and slightly terrifying. Noweira talked about architecture and social justice and the dinner parties she was going to host when she had her own apartment. Laiba listened more than she spoke, but when she did speak, her words carried weight. They became my people. The ones I sat with, the ones I trusted.

And then there was Poppy.

I went to the greenhouse most afternoons. I told myself it was for the tea. I told myself it was for the quiet. I told myself a lot of things. But the truth was simpler and more complicated at the same time. I went because she was there. I went because when I was with her, I felt like I could breathe.

We talked about plants and weather and the small things that made up a day. We talked about her grandmother, who had planted the first seeds, who had taught her everything she knew. We talked about my mother, who I hadn't called, who I couldn't call. We talked about the things we didn't talk about, which was its own kind of conversation.

"You're avoiding something," Poppy said one afternoon. She was repotting a fern, her hands covered in soil, her hair falling in her face. "I can tell."

"I'm not avoiding anything."

"You are. Every time I ask about your family, you change the subject. Every time I ask about Manchester, you look away." She brushed the hair from her face with a dirty hand, leaving a streak of soil across her forehead. "I'm not going to push. But I want you to know that I notice."

"I know you notice."

"Good." She went back to the fern. "That's all I wanted to say."

I watched her work. The way her fingers moved, gentle and sure. The way she talked to the plants under her breath, words I couldn't hear. The way she existed in the world, unapologetic and alive.

"Why do you care?" I asked.

She looked up. "About what?"

"About me. You barely know me."

"I know enough." She set down the fern and wiped her hands on her trousers. "I know you're smart. I know you're scared. I know you're carrying something heavy and you don't know how to put it down." She met my eyes. "That's enough to care."

I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing.

"Come here," she said.

I stood and walked to her. She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, her fingers rough with soil, her touch gentle. "You don't have to tell me anything," she said. "But you don't have to hide either. Not here."

I felt tears prick my eyes. I hadn't cried in years. I wasn't going to start now.

"I should go," I said.

"Okay."

I walked to the door. At the threshold, I turned back. She was watching me, her expression unreadable.

"Poppy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not running from anything. I'm running toward something. I just don't know what yet."

She nodded slowly. "That's the same thing, most of the time."

I left.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about Poppy's hands on my face. The way she'd touched me like I was something worth touching. The way she'd looked at me like I was something worth seeing.

I thought about the reason I'd left Manchester. The thing I didn't think about. The thing I never thought about.

I thought about my mother's face when I told her I was leaving. The way she'd cried. The way she'd begged me to stay. The way I'd walked out anyway, because staying meant drowning, and I couldn't drown. Not again.

I thought about the girl I'd left behind. The one who'd taught me what it meant to want something you couldn't have. The one who'd broken my heart without meaning to. The one I still dreamed about, even now, even here.

I thought about Poppy.

And I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that I was in trouble.

---

The next morning, I found a note under my door.

*Come to the greenhouse after class. I have something to show you. P.*

I folded the note and put it in my pocket. I told myself it didn't mean anything. I told myself she was just being friendly. I told myself a lot of things.

But I went.

---

Poppy was waiting outside the greenhouse when I arrived. She was wearing a different shirt today, blue instead of gray, but the same trousers, the same boots. Her hair was loose, falling past her shoulders in waves of fire. She smiled when she saw me.

"You came."

"You asked me to."

"I ask a lot of things. Most people don't listen." She gestured toward the greenhouse. "Come on. I want to show you something."

She led me inside, past the familiar plants and the wood stove and the kettle. At the back of the greenhouse, behind a curtain of hanging vines, was a door I'd never noticed before. She opened it and gestured me through.

The room beyond was small and warm, lit by a single window. A bed was pushed against one wall, covered in quilts. A desk sat in the corner, covered in papers and books. A shelf held jars of seeds and dried flowers and things I couldn't identify. It was a bedroom. Her bedroom.

"I live here," she said. "The greenhouse is my home. Has been for years."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I want you to know me." She sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at me. "I don't show people this. I don't let people in. But you're different. I don't know why. But you are."

I stood in the doorway and felt the weight of the moment. The significance. The danger.

"Poppy..."

"I know." She held up a hand. "I know what you're going to say. I'm your teacher. It's inappropriate. It's complicated. I know all of that." She met my eyes. "But I also know that I've been alone for a long time. And I know that when I'm with you, I don't feel alone. And I think you feel the same way."

I did. God help me, I did.

"I don't know what to do with this," I said.

"Neither do I." She stood and walked toward me. "But I know I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to pretend that I don't think about you. That I don't wait for you to come to the greenhouse every afternoon. That I don't feel something when you walk through the door."

She was close now. Close enough that I could smell the soil on her skin, the lemon balm on her breath. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"Tell me to stop," she said. "Tell me you don't feel it, and I'll never mention it again."

I didn't tell her to stop. I couldn't.

"I feel it," I said.

She reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were rough and warm and they fit against mine like they belonged there.

"Then stay," she said. "Just for a little while. Just for now."

I stayed.

---

I don't know how long we stood there, holding hands in the doorway of her room. The light shifted. The plants rustled. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The world went on, indifferent to the thing that was happening between us.

"This is dangerous," I said.

"I know."

"If anyone finds out..."

"I know." She squeezed my hand. "But I don't care. I've spent my whole life caring what people think. I'm tired of it."

"You could lose your job."

"I could." She looked at me, her eyes steady. "But I've lost things before. I've survived. I'll survive this too."

"That's not fair to you."

"Fairness is overrated." She let go of my hand and walked to the window. "I've spent years taking care of this place. Taking care of my grandmother's legacy. Taking care of other people's children. I've never taken care of myself." She turned back to me. "You're the first thing I've wanted for myself in a long time. I'm not going to apologize for that."

I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing.

"You should go," she said. "It's getting late. People will notice."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I'm your teacher. You'll see me every day."

"That's not what I meant."

She smiled. It was a sad smile, a knowing smile. "I know what you meant. And yes. You'll see me. The greenhouse is always open."

I left. I walked back to the main building in the dark, my heart pounding, my mind racing. I thought about her hands. Her eyes. The way she'd looked at me like I was something worth wanting.

I thought about the girl I'd left behind. The one who'd taught me what it meant to want something you couldn't have.

I thought about what I was doing. What I was risking. What I was becoming.

And I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that I wasn't going to stop.

---

The next few weeks were a blur. I went to class. I studied. I ate meals with Noweira and Laiba and pretended everything was normal. And every afternoon, I went to the greenhouse.

We didn't talk about what was happening. We didn't put words to it. But something had shifted. The air between us was charged, electric, alive. Every touch lingered. Every glance meant something. We were standing on the edge of something, and neither of us knew if we were going to fall.

Then, one afternoon, we did.

It was raining. The greenhouse was warm and humid, the windows fogged with condensation, the sound of water drumming on the glass. Poppy was repotting a plant, her hands covered in soil, her hair falling in her face. I was sitting on a stool, watching her, the way I always watched her.

"You're staring," she said without looking up.

"You're worth staring at."

She laughed. That low rough sound that I'd come to love. "You're going to get me in trouble."

"I'm already in trouble."

She looked up then. Her eyes met mine, and something passed between us. Something that had been building for weeks. Something that couldn't be stopped.

She set down the plant and wiped her hands on her trousers and walked toward me. She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat of her body, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"Amara," she said.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kiss you now."

"Okay."

She leaned down and pressed her lips to mine. They were soft and warm and tasted like tea and something sweeter underneath. I closed my eyes and let myself feel it. The pressure. The heat. The way her hands came up to cup my face, her fingers rough with soil, her touch gentle.

When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. Her cheeks were flushed. She was smiling.

"That was..." I started.

"Yeah," she said. "It was."

We stood there, breathing, the rain drumming on the glass, the plants rustling around us. I felt like I'd been waiting my whole life for this moment. I felt like I'd been running toward it without knowing.

"I should go," I said.

"I know."

I stood and walked to the door. At the threshold, I turned back. She was watching me, her expression soft, her eyes full of something I couldn't name.

"Poppy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not running anymore."

She smiled. "Good."

I walked back to the main building in the rain, my heart pounding, my lips still warm from hers. I thought about what I'd done. What I was doing. What I was becoming.

I thought about the girl I'd left behind. The one who'd taught me what it meant to want something you couldn't have.

I thought about Poppy. The one who was teaching me what it meant to have something you shouldn't.

And I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that this was only the beginning.

---

The trouble started three days later.

I was in the library, studying for an exam, when Noweira found me. She slid into the chair across from me, her expression serious, her glasses sliding down her nose.

"We need to talk," she said.

"About what?"

"About Poppy."

I felt my blood run cold. "What about her?"

"I've seen you. Going to the greenhouse. Every afternoon." She leaned forward. "I'm not stupid, Amara. I know what's happening."

"Nothing's happening."

"Don't lie to me." Her voice was sharp. "I'm your friend. I'm trying to help you."

"Help me how?"

"By telling you to be careful." She glanced around the library, making sure no one was listening. "Poppy is... complicated. She has a history. And you're a student. If anyone finds out..."

"Nothing's going on."

"Amara." She reached across the table and took my hand. "I'm not judging you. I'm not. But I've seen this before. Poppy falls for students. It never ends well. For anyone."

I pulled my hand away. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know more than you think." She sat back. "Laiba knows too. We've been watching. We've been worried."

"Worried about what?"

"About you." Her eyes were soft, concerned. "You're new here. You're vulnerable. And Poppy... Poppy has a way of making people feel seen. It's her gift. But it's also her curse. She doesn't mean to hurt anyone. But she does."

I stood. "I have to go."

"Amara..."

"I have to go."

I walked out of the library and into the cold air. My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding. I thought about what Noweira had said. *Poppy falls for students. It never ends well.*

I thought about the way Poppy had looked at me. The way she'd touched me. The way she'd said, *You're the first thing I've wanted for myself in a long time.*

I thought about the girl I'd left behind. The one who'd broken my heart without meaning to.

I thought about what I was doing. What I was risking. What I was becoming.

And I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that I was in too deep to stop.

---

I went to the greenhouse that night. Poppy was waiting for me, the kettle on, the stove crackling. She smiled when she saw me, but the smile faded when she saw my face.

"What's wrong?"

"Noweira knows."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. "I figured she would. She's observant."

"She said you have a history. With students."

Poppy's expression didn't change. "She's not wrong."

"So it's true?"

"It's true that I've cared about students before. It's true that it's ended badly." She poured tea into two mugs. "But it's also true that this is different. You're different."

"How?"

"I don't know." She handed me a mug. "But you are."

I took the mug and sat down on the stool. The tea was warm in my hands. The greenhouse was quiet, the only sound the drip of water and the rustle of leaves.

"I'm scared," I said.

"I know."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"Neither do I." She sat down across from me. "But I know I don't want to stop."

I looked at her. Her hair was loose, falling around her shoulders. Her glasses were slightly askew. There was a smudge of soil on her cheek. She was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen.

"I don't want to stop either," I said.

She smiled. It was a real smile, a true smile. "Then we won't."

We sat there, drinking tea, the rain drumming on the glass. I thought about what I was risking. What I was losing. What I was gaining. I thought about Noweira's warning. Laiba's silence. The way they'd looked at me, like I was something fragile, something breakable.

I thought about Poppy. The way she made me feel. The way she saw me. The way she wanted me.

And I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that I was going to keep going. That I was going to keep falling. That I was going to keep wanting something I shouldn't.

The rain kept falling. The plants kept growing. And somewhere in the dark, the world kept turning, indifferent to the thing that was happening between us.

But I wasn't indifferent. I was alive. For the first time in years, I was alive.

And that was enough.