Walls and Invitations
Cruz sat rigidly in the middle row of Professor Asif’s lecture hall, arms crossed over her notebook. Her track bag rested at her feet, half-zipped with a glimpse of textbooks and crumpled notes inside. The student chatter around her was a dull drone; the only thing she truly heard was the thud of her own heartbeat.
She refused to look at the front of the room. Don’t give her the satisfaction. Even so, she felt a faint tremor in her pulse whenever Aaliyah took a step, spoke, or glanced in her direction.
When class started, Professor Asif launched into an overview of colonial legacies, referencing a new case study for them to analyze. Aaliyah occasionally chimed in, clarifying points. Each time she spoke, Cruz’s shoulders tightened. She forced herself to scribble notes, eyes fixed on the words scrawled by Asif on the projector screen.
A hush fell as Aaliyah stepped up to elaborate on a particular historical boundary dispute. Her measured voice echoed in Cruz’s ears. She sounds the same, but everything’s changed. Cruz pressed her pen to paper, writing as though her life depended on it. Not once did she look up.
When the lecture ended, students shuffled out in a tide of rustling papers and murmured goodbyes. As usual, Cruz scooped her notes into her bag the instant class finished, eager to escape. She felt Aaliyah’s gaze, a gentle weight that threatened to unravel her forced calm.
She made it to the door without a backward glance, leaving behind the woman whose presence still haunted her every waking moment.
--
Aaliyah stayed at the front of the lecture hall, methodically shutting down the projector. She watched Cruz vanish into the hallway, the tension in her own body coiling tighter. We used to have at least a nod or a quick hello. Now, Cruz’s deliberate avoidance felt like a blade twisting deeper.
She kept her composure in front of the lingering students asking questions about upcoming assignments. After they left, she sank into a seat, letting the near-empty room’s silence envelop her. Why did it all turn so cold?
She remembered their earlier dynamic—shy smiles, charged glances, an undercurrent of possibility. Then she’d pulled away, citing professional boundaries. And of course, dinner with Ehsan might’ve looked incriminating if she ever found out. But was that enough for Cruz to act as though she didn’t exist?
Her pride flared at the thought of chasing Cruz down for an explanation. I’m the TA; she’s the student. I can’t just corner her. Instead, she gathered her bag, the dull ache in her chest unrelenting. Perhaps it’s better this way, she tried to convince herself. We can both move on.
But the hollowness in her gut suggested otherwise.
--
Outside on the track, Cruz found her remedy in the punishing rhythm of sprint repeats. Every muscle in her body burned with effort as she pushed herself to the brink. Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes. This was her new routine: Run until your heart can’t dwell on anything else.
Coach Joe observed from the sidelines, arms folded. “You’re going harder than usual, Manuelos,” she noted, eyes narrowed. “Don’t overtrain and injure yourself before the final meets.”
Cruz slowed, panting. “I’m good. Promise.”
Coach Joe’s gaze lingered. “Take a breather. Next week’s workload will be intense enough without you burning out.”
Nodding, Cruz stepped off the track, heart pounding in her ears. She caught Bobby’s concerned frown. Bobby had gently confronted her once or twice about her abrupt coldness toward Aaliyah, but Cruz brushed it off every time. I don’t need to talk about this.
She took a seat on the grass, gulping water from a plastic bottle. The sun beat down, warming her skin despite the chill in the autumn air. Physical pain over emotional pain—any day.
--
A few days later, Cruz arrived at the campus gym for a routine weightlifting session. As she passed by a bulletin board plastered with flyers, one neon page caught her eye: TRACK TEAM SEASON-END PARTY—EVERYONE WELCOME.
She stared at the bold lettering. The annual blowout was always a highlight for the track team, a chance to cut loose after a grueling schedule. Normally, Cruz would look forward to it, but now the thought only filled her with dread. I’ll probably go just to support my teammates, but that’s it.
She ripped a smaller tear-away slip with the party date and time. Sticking it into her pocket, she mentally filed it under “things I don’t want to think about.” There was still time before the big event, so she could ignore it for now. It’s not for a while. I’ll figure out my approach later.
--
A day or two after the flyers went up, Aaliyah was tidying some papers in the TA office when she overheard two students chatting in the hallway.
“…that track team party is supposed to be epic. Practically the whole campus is invited.”
“For sure. I heard it’s the last big fling before finals. People go all out.”
The students’ voices faded as they walked away, leaving Aaliyah feeling oddly uneasy. The track team is hosting a party? That’s Cruz’s group. A swirl of complicated emotions surged. She doubted it was an event she’d attend—why would a TA crash a raucous undergrad party?
Yet a flicker of curiosity gnawed at her. She remembered the days when she’d studied abroad for undergrad, missing out on typical campus social scenes. It’s not my place now.
She pushed the thought from her mind, reminding herself that she already had enough turmoil without throwing a party into the mix. Focus on your dissertation. Focus on grading.
Still, she couldn’t help picturing Cruz at that party, maybe laughing with teammates, definitely ignoring Aaliyah if she did appear. The pang in her chest spiked again, a reminder that everything had changed.
--
Class after class passed in the same strained pattern. Cruz arrived right on time, left immediately when it ended. She submitted her assignments promptly, typed messages to Aaliyah only when absolutely required for research updates—always polite, never personal.
Aaliyah drafted similarly detached responses. She occasionally added a “Hope you’re doing well” at the end, but Cruz never acknowledged it. Instead, she’d respond with a succinct “Thank you for the information,” then sign off.
In the lecture hall, Asif occasionally had them break into small groups. Whenever Aaliyah circulated to see if anyone had questions, Cruz made sure she was busy talking to another student, or flipping through pages, effectively avoiding direct conversation. The rift was evident to anyone paying attention, though no one dared ask about it.
Late one afternoon, Aaliyah finished her TA hours and stood outside the building, scanning the campus grounds. The sun cast long shadows, students hurrying by. She spotted Cruz in the distance, walking with Bobby, their conversation animated. At least she seems engaged with friends. A pang of envy flickered in Aaliyah’s gut. Then Cruz tilted her head, looking back—and Aaliyah immediately turned away, heat flushing her cheeks. Pathetic.
--
Despite the emotional turmoil, both pressed forward academically. Cruz’s final paper neared completion, bolstered by the NGO interviews that Aaliyah had helped arrange. She hammered out her arguments late into the night, finding grim satisfaction in seeing her citations stack up.
Meanwhile, Aaliyah poured herself into her dissertation, gleaning solace from the intricate web of research. She told herself that was all she needed—her career, her future, free from tangles of unrequited feelings. But sometimes, in the quiet of her apartment, her thoughts drifted to that fleeting moment in her office, the heat of Cruz’s hand in hers. Did I make the right call pulling away?
The question haunted her, no matter how she tried to justify it.
--
One evening, Bobby cornered Cruz after track practice, leaning against a chain-link fence. “We need to talk,” she said firmly.
Cruz sighed, unzipping her track jacket. “About what?”
Bobby crossed her arms. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, academically and athletically. And you’re giving off serious ‘don’t talk to me about Ms. TA’ vibes. It’s not healthy, Cruz.”
Cruz scowled. “I’m just focusing on finishing the semester strong. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
Bobby shook her head. “There’s a difference between focus and self-destruction. You can’t outrun heartbreak forever.”
The words pierced Cruz’s defenses, though she masked it with a shrug. “I’m fine.”
Bobby’s expression softened. “If you ever need to vent, I’m here. But shutting down doesn’t solve anything.”
Cruz swallowed, gaze dropping. “Thanks, but I really am okay. I just… need distance.”
“All right,” Bobby relented, though doubt lingered in her eyes. “But remember, we have that party soon. Don’t isolate yourself. Sometimes letting loose helps more than you’d think.”
Cruz forced a tight smile, unwilling to debate. She merely nodded, then headed to the locker room, her chest tight with unshed conflict.
--
Simultaneously, Aaliyah faced her own moment of reckoning. During a quiet afternoon in her TA office, she tried to focus on grading mid-semester papers. Yet her gaze kept drifting to her phone, where no messages from Cruz appeared. Why would she message me beyond academics? I gave her every reason to stay away.
She tapped her foot anxiously. A question scuttled through her mind: Should I approach her, explain about Ehsan, clarify that dinner was a family obligation? But the thought of risking a confrontation that might spiral into departmental gossip held her back. My career’s on the line. Her final semester is on the line.
Pride pricked her as well: If she wants to be cold, let her. I have no business chasing her. The logic felt hollow. She recognized it as a defense mechanism—anything to avoid the possibility of rejection.
Shaking her head, she forced her attention back to the papers in front of her. Be the professional. Let the rest fall as it may.
--
As the weeks inched onward, the upcoming track team party became a campus buzz. Flyers multiplied; rumors spread about epic decorations and a DJ from one of the downtown clubs. Cruz heard bits and pieces from her teammates—everyone hyped it as the social highlight before finals crunch.
She gave only half an ear, determined not to let social drama interfere. Yet a small knot of anxiety formed when she realized everyone was talking about going. Including, maybe, her. The thought speared her chest. Would I survive seeing her at a rowdy party?
For her part, Aaliyah gleaned only the basics: the date, location, time. She heard passing mentions from undergrads. It’s not my scene. She repeated this to herself like a mantra. I’m not going.
Yet each day brought new gossip: “Everyone’s invited.” “It’s basically the entire track team plus whoever else wants to show.” “It’s the last big blowout.” The building hum of excitement was impossible to ignore, intensifying the silent tension threading between her and Cruz.
--
Amid the swirl of impending festivities, both Cruz and Aaliyah hardened their resolve.
Cruz vowed to keep her head down, see the semester through, and funnel her heartbreak into athletic prowess and academic success. I don’t need closure. I don’t need explanations. She told herself to treat Aaliyah like any other TA—distant, formal, inconsequential.
Aaliyah, meanwhile, told herself that burying her regrets was safer than unearthing them. She had her dissertation to complete, students to guide, a professional reputation to maintain. Emotions can wait, she reasoned, though the ache in her chest never truly subsided.
Thus, when passing each other on campus, they exchanged curt nods or nothing at all. In lecture, they stuck to their roles: Aaliyah as a knowledgeable TA, Cruz as a diligent but aloof student. Anyone who knew them well sensed the tension, yet no one dared push them together.
--
One brisk afternoon, Cruz finished a solo session at the library. Arms filled with books, she trudged toward the exit, mind buzzing with references for her paper’s conclusion. Suddenly, she turned a corner and nearly collided with Aaliyah, who carried a stack of folders.
Both froze. A split second of raw tension flared between them—eyes meeting in startled recognition.
Aaliyah parted her lips as if to speak, but Cruz moved first, stepping aside, expression unreadable. “Excuse me,” she murmured, voice clipped.
“Of course,” Aaliyah whispered, hugging the folders tighter.
Cruz sidestepped, continuing her path without a second glance. Her heart thundered, but she kept her face neutral. Once out of sight, she exhaled shakily, hating the surge of longing that still flickered.
Aaliyah stood rooted, watching Cruz’s form vanish. She won’t even spare me a second. The rejection stung, tears pricking the back of her eyes. Maybe it’s for the best, she reiterated, turning away.
--
Thus, the status quo remained—Cruz burying herself in track meets and late-night studies, Aaliyah juggling her TA duties and dissertation deadlines. Neither admitted the emotional distance weighed heavily, as though they carried a wound no one else could see.
Invitations to the track team party continued to circulate, each rumor more grandiose than the last. Cruz’s teammates kept nudging her to attend, insisting it’d be the perfect chance to “let loose.” She maintained a half-hearted acceptance, determined not to let her guard down if Aaliyah did show. If she even cares to.
From Aaliyah’s perspective, the party was just campus chatter—she never considered it an actual possibility. I’m not going, she told herself repeatedly. The mental image of facing Cruz in a social setting felt too overwhelming, especially given the iciness they now shared.
Still, with every passing day, the campus buzz grew louder. The date loomed, even if it was still a while away, overshadowing the uneasy silence between them. Their worlds inched closer to another collision—this time at an event where neither the classroom nor professional boundaries would shield them from the truth of their feelings.