Worth It

Cruz Manuelos woke up to the familiar hum of a city that never truly slept. Through her thin curtains, the early-morning glow of New York City peeked into room 0805 of Greenwich Hall, illuminating scattered running shoes, half-folded athletic gear, and a small desk overflowing with textbooks and protein bars. She blinked, half-confused by the blaring alarm on her phone, and reached to silence it.

It was barely six in the morning, but she could already hear the muffled clamor of her roommate, Bobby, rummaging in the kitchenette. Cruz groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Another day, another round of training, classes, and not enough hours in between.

At twenty-three, Cruz was in her final semester at NYU, majoring in International Relations—though if she was being honest with herself, the major had been chosen more out of necessity than passion. She’d snagged an athletic scholarship that covered most of her tuition and housing, and NYU’s track and field team had offered her a rare chance to break free of the life she’d known back home.

This is my last semester, she reminded herself, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. After that, no more guaranteed dorm room, no more meal plan, no more coach breathing down my neck.

The thought should have felt liberating—she’d wanted independence all her life—but instead, it hovered like a vague, unsettling anxiety. How many late-night runs and early-morning weight-lifting sessions had she endured, only to realize she had no concrete plans once the final meet was over?

“Yo, Manuelos,” came Bobby’s voice from the next room. “You alive in there?”

Cruz cracked a grin, running a hand through her tangled dark hair. “Kinda.”

“We’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry,” Bobby said. “Don’t forget, Coach Joe wants us on the track by seven sharp.”

Cruz forced herself upright. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dorm-room mirror: tall, lean, dark brown hair tumbling in waves around her shoulders. She’d need to tie it up before practice, but for a moment, she let her hair drape over the cigarette burn scars on her arms, a reminder of the past she’d rather not think about.

Stop stalling, she told herself. Get dressed.

She yanked on a pair of compression leggings, a sports bra, and an NYU Track & Field hoodie. The rhythmic squeak of her sneakers on the dorm’s linoleum floor followed her into the living area, where Bobby, sporting a mullet and wearing well-worn athletic gear, was chomping on an energy bar.

“Morning,” Bobby said, tossing Cruz a banana. “Eat something. Can’t have our star javelin thrower fainting.”

Cruz snorted. “Right. Because I’m definitely feeling ‘star’ material today.”

Bobby’s easy grin flashed. “Just a few more months, dude. We push through, graduate, move on to bigger and better things.”

Cruz nodded, though a part of her twisted with uncertainty. Bigger and better… sure. But what exactly? The UN? Diplomacy? Teaching English abroad? She had no clue.

“C’mon,” Bobby said, heading for the door. “We can’t keep Coach waiting.”

--

By the time they reached the outdoor track, the sun had climbed higher, painting the sky in pale blues and golds. Coach Joe McNamara, a lean woman in her mid-thirties with a constant stern expression, stood by the starting line, clipboard in hand.

“Manuelos. Bobby,” she barked in greeting, not looking up from her scribbled notes. “You’re late.”

Bobby opened her mouth to protest, but Coach Joe didn’t give her a chance.

“Warm up. Two laps, easy jog, then dynamic stretches.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Move.”

Cruz set off, letting Bobby fall in step beside her. The familiar burn of her muscles waking up reminded Cruz why she’d stuck with track all these years: she understood the pain, the discipline, the single-minded focus that came with pushing her body to the limit. It had been her escape from a toxic home life, a way to channel anger and fear into something tangible—like sprint times and throwing distances.

They finished the laps and moved through a series of lunges, high-knees, and leg swings. Cruz’s mind buzzed with a thousand unrelated thoughts—homework, the final semester’s meet schedule, that group project she’d barely started, the uncertain future.

Coach Joe strolled over, squinting in the morning light. “Manuelos, you’ve got an 800 today. We’ll time you. I want to see if your endurance has improved.”

Cruz nodded, taking deep breaths.

Joe gave her a once-over, noticing the tension in Cruz’s posture. “Don’t psych yourself out,” Joe said, voice surprisingly gentle for once. “You’re almost at the finish line—academically and athletically. Keep your head in the game.”

Cruz mustered a tight smile. “Yes, Coach.”

She stepped onto the track, mind zeroing in on the lines beneath her feet. With each stride, she imagined leaving behind every worry, every doubt. The adrenaline coursed through her, muscles burning, heart pounding. For those brief, glorious seconds, she was free.

--

Later, showered and hastily dressed in jeans and a worn NYU hoodie, Cruz raced across campus with Bobby by her side. They slipped into the basement level of a tall building where the Politics of the Middle East course was held.

“Remind me why we’re taking this class,” Cruz muttered, scanning her ID at the door.

Bobby shrugged. “Because you need the credit to graduate, and I need at least one class outside of my major, and hey—Professor Asif’s supposed to be good.”

“Right,” Cruz grumbled. “I just hope it’s not too intense.”

Inside the lecture hall, the buzz of conversation blended with the hum of fluorescent lights. Students milled about, finding seats. Some were bright-eyed and eager, others looked as if they’d rather be in bed.

Cruz and Bobby found two seats in the middle row. Cruz dropped her backpack at her feet, rummaging for a pen and her battered notebook. She was determined to pay attention, no matter how sleep-deprived she felt.

She was flipping through the syllabus when Professor Asif cleared his throat at the podium.

“Welcome to Politics of the Middle East,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll be covering a broad range of topics, from historical contexts to current geopolitical dynamics. It’s an intense course, but I trust you’re all capable of putting in the necessary work.”

He droned on a bit about expectations, the grading scale, and recommended readings. Cruz tried to follow along, underlining key points, reminding herself that she could not afford to slack off—she needed a decent GPA if she wanted any shot at graduate programs, fellowships, or even the possibility of another scholarship.

Focus. Take notes. Get your life together.

She tapped her pen, glancing at Bobby, who was barely awake, half-lidded eyes threatening to close at any second. Cruz stifled a laugh. If Bobby fell asleep, Cruz might soon follow.

Then, the door at the side of the room swung open, and everything changed.

--

A woman walked in, moving with unhurried grace that seemed to command the attention of everyone present. She was petite, but somehow she gave off the impression of being taller, more imposing. Her dark hair cascaded neatly around her shoulders, and there was a precision to her posture that suggested she was used to being listened to.

Cruz felt herself sit up straighter without even deciding to. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about this woman—perhaps the calm confidence, the way she carried a stack of papers as though they held the secrets to the universe, or the slight tilt of her chin that made her look both approachable and intimidating.

“This is Aaliyah Amrohi, your TA,” Professor Asif announced, rifling through a separate stack of documents. “She’ll be handling office hours and grading your assignments. I suggest you take her feedback seriously.”

Aaliyah inclined her head. “Good afternoon,” she said in a smooth, measured tone. Her voice carried just the faintest trace of an accent—elegant, understated, hinting at an international upbringing.

Cruz found herself gripping her pen harder. Whoa.

Bobby immediately noticed the shift in Cruz’s posture and elbowed her. Cruz tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach as she watched Aaliyah place the papers neatly on a side table, then step forward to address the class.

“We’ll be exploring a variety of historical and contemporary sources,” Aaliyah said, scanning the room. “I’ll do my best to guide you in your research, but it’ll require consistent effort on your part.”

Cruz was still staring, pen hanging from her fingers, brain going fuzzy in a way that rarely happened outside of intense track meets.

Then the worst possible thing occurred: Aaliyah’s gaze landed squarely on Cruz.

For a second, Cruz’s lungs forgot how to inhale. Aaliyah’s eyes, an intriguing blend of hues, seemed to flick over Cruz’s face, as though assessing her.

Shit, look away! Cruz scolded herself. She scrambled, fumbling with her pen. It slipped from her hand, clattered on the desk, and rolled to the floor.

Bobby snorted, leaning close to whisper, “Smooth.”

Cruz felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks. She ducked quickly to retrieve the pen, heart pounding. Get a grip, dumbass.

--

Thirty minutes crawled by, and Cruz’s attempts at paying attention were only half-successful. Her notes were scattered phrases at best—names of political figures, references to revolutions, a scribbled note about “colonial legacies.” But her mind kept drifting back to the front of the room where Aaliyah stood, pointing out relevant passages in the textbook, highlighting the complexities of state politics and social movements.

It wasn’t just that Aaliyah was beautiful—though, holy hell, she was. It was the poised assurance in her voice, the way she spoke with clarity and insight, as if she lived and breathed the material. Cruz felt simultaneously intrigued and intimidated.

She tried to refocus. Senior year, final semester, keep it together.

“Ms. Manuelos.”

At the sound of her name, Cruz jolted upright. Her eyes snapped to the front of the class, where Aaliyah stood with her arms lightly crossed.

Cruz swallowed. “Uh, yes?”

Aaliyah tilted her head, a subtle motion that managed to convey both curiosity and a hint of amusement. “You looked deep in thought. Care to share your insights on the assigned reading?”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the overhead lights.

Cruz’s thoughts spun: Assigned reading? Which one? I… oh no.

She had skimmed the first few pages last night but hadn’t finished. She tried to recall something—anything—about the key arguments. Do not make a fool of yourself.

She cleared her throat. “Right, um… The reading was… interesting. It touched on, uh, historical context.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Aaliyah’s mouth. “Indeed. Care to elaborate?”

Cruz felt a wave of embarrassment burn at the tips of her ears. Her mind went blank. Why is she so calm? Why do I feel like I’m facing Coach Joe with a missed training session?

“Sorry, I…” Cruz fidgeted with her pen, heat filling her face. “I haven’t quite finished it yet.”

From the next seat, Bobby stifled a giggle, and Cruz wanted to sink into the floor.

Aaliyah nodded, neither scolding nor overly kind. “I see. Well, I recommend completing the reading before the next class. You’ll need the foundational knowledge to keep up.”

Cruz nodded vigorously, wishing she could vanish.

“Let’s make sure we’re prepared next time,” Aaliyah added, turning back to the rest of the room. “It’s essential for meaningful discussion.”

Cruz forced her gaze down to her notebook, the shame of being called out mixing uneasily with something else—an odd, fluttery feeling she couldn’t quite name.

--

When the lecture ended, students began packing up. Cruz practically leaped from her seat, stuffing her notebook into her backpack. Bobby was right behind her, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Pen drop, no real answer to the question, and an obvious crush,” Bobby said in a singsong whisper. “You’re off to a blazing start, Manuelos.”

Cruz groaned. “Shut up.”

They shuffled out into the hallway, where the bright overhead lights cast everything in a harsh glare. Half a dozen other students from the track team were waiting there—Tucker, Randy, Tex—clearly having heard about the fiasco.

Tucker opened his arms wide, like greeting a long-lost friend. “Here she is, the future scholar.”

Randy grinned. “So, how did it feel to get called out by the TA?”

Tex waggled his eyebrows. “Bet you wish you’d done the reading now, huh?”

Bobby snorted. “Reading? This one was too busy this morning throwing a javelin to care about politics.”

Cruz rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the nervous twist in her stomach. “Can we please talk about something else?”

Randy chuckled. “Nah, this is way more interesting. Weren’t you telling us at practice yesterday that you wanted an easy semester?”

“It’s not going to be easy if I actually have to, you know, study,” Cruz muttered. And not get caught staring at my TA like an idiot.

The group set off down the hall, the conversation devolving into casual jabs and recaps of the morning’s workout. But Cruz’s mind kept drifting back to the lecture hall, to the moment Aaliyah locked eyes with her.

She replayed the scene, wincing inwardly. Why did I have to stare? Great job, Cruz. Real smooth.

A fleeting curiosity took hold: Was she judging me? Probably. Was she annoyed? Maybe she thought I was just a lazy athlete.

The idea made Cruz’s stomach clench. She’d spent her whole life trying to prove she was more than just a strong pair of legs and a throwing arm. Now, in her final semester, she had a chance to show it in an academic setting, yet all she’d done was confirm every stereotype of the jock who doesn’t study.

She clenched her jaw. I’m not letting it end like this.

--

They passed by a large window overlooking a courtyard scattered with students hunched over laptops and coffee cups. Bobby split off from the group, reminding Cruz that she needed to run to a different building for an elective class. The track bros headed toward the dining hall, joking about lunch.

Cruz hesitated, alone now in the hallway with her thoughts.

I should probably go back to my dorm and read, she mused, imagining Aaliyah’s unimpressed expression if she got called out again next class.

Yet, a spark of intrigue kept her rooted to the spot. Who is Aaliyah Amrohi, anyway? She’s not much older than me—mid-twenties, maybe? She speaks with such authority.

Cruz leaned against the wall, letting the bustle of students flow around her. Her mind drifted to the athletic scholarship that was basically her lifeline. If her grades tanked, she could jeopardize it at the last second, though it was unlikely. Still, she didn’t want to risk anything that could strip away her sense of security.

She stared at a patch of sunlight streaming through the window, half-listening to the muffled conversations around her.

Focus on what you can control. She repeated Coach Joe’s mantra in her head. Take care of business, go to practice, keep your GPA up, graduate.

With a heavy sigh, she decided to head toward the library. No sense in slacking off right from the start.

--

Cruz had just stepped into the corridor leading to the exit when she spotted Aaliyah walking ahead, flipping through a notebook. Her posture was as measured as before, her movements graceful yet efficient. Cruz paused, uncertain if she should say anything—or if that would be weird.

She remained frozen, letting Aaliyah get a few steps farther. Then, to Cruz’s surprise, Aaliyah stopped near a window, speaking softly to Professor Asif.

Cruz couldn’t hear everything, but she caught snippets: Aaliyah mentioning “office hours,” “grading,” and “PhD progress.”

Ah. So she was a doctoral student as well, which explained her depth of knowledge and composure. Cruz felt a pang of admiration—and intimidation.

Her phone vibrated, interrupting her eavesdropping.

[Bobby]: Where’d you go? We’ll meet at practice later, yeah?

Cruz exhaled. Practice. Right. She tapped out a quick reply.

[Cruz]: Yeah, headed to the library first. See you on the track at 5.

She looked up again, but Aaliyah and Professor Asif had already wrapped up and were parting ways. Aaliyah turned in Cruz’s direction, and for a split second, their eyes met again.

Cruz’s breath caught. She managed a polite nod, but her feet were practically bolted to the floor.

Aaliyah gave a curt, polite nod in return, then continued down the hallway, heels clicking against the polished floor.

Stop staring, Cruz berated herself, feeling heat creep up her neck. She swiftly headed for the library, determined to bury herself in textbooks and salvage her pride.

--

The library’s imposing facade always made Cruz feel like she was about to enter a sacred space for scholars—a territory she wasn’t entirely sure she belonged in. But she walked in anyway, weaving through the stacks until she found a relatively quiet corner.

She dropped her bag on a table, sank into a chair, and flipped open the textbook for the course. Politics of the Middle East. The assigned reading actually seemed fascinating—an overview of historical events that shaped the region, complete with detailed case studies.

Why didn’t I read this properly before class? she wondered, scanning the introduction. The complexities of regional power dynamics, tribal politics, and colonial legacies all hummed with real-world implications—things that, in a different life, Cruz might have poured herself into wholeheartedly.

She tried not to think about Aaliyah, tried not to picture that measured stare or the faint, amused quirk of her lips when Cruz floundered in class. Focus on the material. Don’t be a cliché.

After thirty minutes of determined reading, her phone buzzed again.

[Tex]: Hitting the dining hall with Randy and Tucker. Sure you don’t want to join?

She paused, glancing at the time. She still had a good chunk of the reading left, plus a bit more assigned material for the next lecture. But her stomach rumbled at the mention of food.

[Cruz]: I’ll pass. Gonna finish the reading and do some work.

She put her phone on silent, took a deep breath, and dove back into the text, highlighting important quotes and scribbling notes in the margins.

Time slipped by as she inched closer to finishing the chapter. The deeper she read, the more she realized that maybe she did care about this subject. International Relations wasn’t just something she chose to get by; it might actually align with who she was becoming.

Eventually, her eyes blurred from the dense paragraphs. She leaned back, rubbing her temples, feeling a small surge of triumph. She’d made real progress. Maybe next class, she wouldn’t look like a total fool if Aaliyah—or Ms. Amrohi, she mentally corrected—asked her a question.

She closed the textbook and gazed out the window overlooking a courtyard where students chatted at picnic tables. In the distance, the haze of city buildings reminded her of how vast and brimming with opportunity this place was.

I can do this, she thought. I just have to focus.

--

By the time Cruz emerged from the library, the afternoon sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the campus walkways. She hoisted her backpack and felt a slight ache in her shoulders—residual tension from the morning workout or maybe from stress.

With a free hour before afternoon track practice, she decided to walk around campus, letting her mind wander. She passed by a group of tourists snapping photos of NYU buildings, overheard a heated debate about philosophy from a couple of students, and nearly collided with a skateboarder who breezed by.

Her phone buzzed again, this time an alarm reminding her to head to the track soon.

Gotta keep moving.

But as she crossed a small plaza with benches and a fountain, her thoughts drifted back to Aaliyah Amrohi. Who was this poised, intelligent woman who could speak about Middle Eastern politics with such clarity? And why did Cruz feel so rattled every time their eyes met?

She tried to brush it off as a simple attraction—nothing new, plenty of people were hot, especially in a place as diverse as NYU. But something about Aaliyah was different. Maybe it was the combination of grace and quiet authority. Maybe it was the unspoken sense that she was more than just another TA.

Cruz’s heart kicked up a notch as she replayed the moment in class when Aaliyah called on her. The slight, knowing smile. The confident posture. The flicker of amusement in her eyes when Cruz failed to answer.

I can’t let that happen again, Cruz decided, adjusting her backpack strap. She’d push herself academically, show that she was more than an underprepared senior who breezed by on athletic prowess.

And yet, deep down, a part of her already knew: it wasn’t just about impressing Aaliyah academically. It was about that spark she felt, the one that made her chest feel tight with anticipation or nerves or something else entirely.

She made her way toward the athletic complex, stepping onto the paths she’d walked countless times in the past four years. Even the well-worn cracks in the concrete felt oddly comforting.

At the edge of campus, she caught sight of Bobby jogging ahead, presumably on her way to the locker rooms.

“Manuelos, hurry up!” Bobby called over her shoulder.

Cruz broke into a jog, shaking out her arms as she went. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Her final semester had officially begun, and it loomed large—full of uncertainty, but also possibility. She had a track season to finish strong, a scholarship to maintain, a mountain of reading assignments to tackle, and maybe, just maybe, something else stirring in her heart that she wasn’t ready to name.

The city’s noise rose up around her: traffic horns, distant music, chatter from passersby. She let it wash over her, breathing in the frenetic energy of the place she’d called home for nearly four years.

Tomorrow’s a new day, she told herself, as she always did before stepping onto the track. And next class, I’ll be ready.