A Glimmer of Possibility
Cruz sat on her dorm bed, laptop propped on her knees, feeling the echoes of the track meet still clinging to her muscles. Her final collegiate race had ended in a jolt of disappointment, overshadowing any sense of closure. Despite countless hours of training, she’d stumbled at the crucial moment. All that build-up, gone in a heartbeat.
She tried to focus on the blank Word document in front of her—an outline for a final study guide. Her phone buzzed with messages from teammates offering condolences on the race, but she ignored them for now. The ache in her legs felt negligible compared to the bruise on her pride. Years of dedicating my life to track, and I couldn’t even end on a high note.
Bobby had urged her to come out for a post-meet dinner with the team the night before, but Cruz had declined, claiming exhaustion. Truth was, she couldn’t stomach the pitying looks. I just want to be alone.
She exhaled, blinking at the laptop’s glare. Studying for the final exam in Asif’s class was her next big hurdle, along with finishing the last tweaks of her research paper. At least there, she still had a chance to excel. My future’s not all about track. That mantra felt empty, but she repeated it anyway.
--
Cruz decided to check her inbox for any updates about the NGO interviews. She had a standing arrangement to email a UN contact about her final paper’s references. Might as well see if they replied.
Scrolling through unread messages, she found one that nearly made her heart freeze:
Subject: Potential Internship/Employment Opportunity — UNOCHA (Geneva HQ)
She stared, pulse quickening. This wasn’t the typical internship spam. The email address bore the .un domain, and the name was one she recognized from the conversation Aaliyah had facilitated weeks ago. Is this real?
Swallowing hard, she opened it. The text was formal but encouraging: they were impressed by her knowledge of Middle Eastern humanitarian challenges, her thoughtful questions, and her dedication to understanding NGO frameworks. If she was still interested, they wanted to discuss a six-month paid internship (with possible extension) at the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs in Geneva.
Cruz’s heart pounded. Geneva. It felt like a dream—an escape from all she knew, a chance to build something on her own terms. For a second, relief surged, followed by apprehension. I just bombed my track finale. Now an international door swings open?
The email ended with a request for an updated CV and a short personal statement about her academic and professional goals. They suggested a video interview if she was interested.
She reread it twice, hands trembling. This is huge. She was weeks away from losing her scholarship and dorm access, uncertain where to go next. She had no family to rely on. This might be the lifeline she desperately needed.
--
Cruz dropped her laptop onto her pillow, mind racing. I need to respond, but do I want to uproot my life and move to Geneva? She pictured the vibrant city, the hub of international affairs, her own future stripped of track obligations. A spark of excitement warred with raw fear. I’ve never even left the country, aside from a brief trip to Canada for a meet.
Still, the idea of working with UNOCHA intrigued her deeply. She’d spent months researching NGOs and humanitarian efforts. She understood the complexities. And maybe, it’s what I’m meant to do next.
She typed a quick draft reply: Thank you for your email. I’m very interested in learning more about this opportunity… Then she paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Should I mention anything about needing time to think? She decided to keep it brief but affirmative, showing genuine interest without committing fully.
Just before hitting send, a thought prickled. Should I tell Aaliyah about this? She’s the reason I had those contacts. The memory of their near-kiss and subsequent cold war made her chest tighten. No, I can’t face her right now. She grimaced, recalling her disastrous final race. She saw me fail.
Exhaling shakily, she hit send. I’ll see what they say in return. The swirl of anxious excitement in her gut confirmed one thing: this was the first real spark of hope she’d felt since her track career effectively ended.
--
Instead of rushing to share the news, Cruz kept the email to herself. She packed her laptop and headed to the library, determined to revise her final paper for Asif. She wanted everything perfect—if her track performance had faltered, at least her academic record would stand strong.
Hoisting her backpack over one shoulder, she left the dorm. Early evening light slanted across campus, students meandering to dinner or study sessions. Focus. This could be my shot at a real future.
Her footsteps echoed over the concrete. She tried to bury the flutter in her chest, the longing to text Bobby or talk it through with someone. But this felt personal, and after the fiasco at the meet, she needed to process alone. I’ll tell them later, if it looks like it’s confirmed.
The library’s hush welcomed her, a sharp contrast to the turmoil inside her head. She snagged a table near a window, opening her laptop to re-check citations and refine her paper’s conclusion. Her final assignment in Asif’s class was almost done—just needed a bit more polish. She typed steadily, eyebrows knitting with concentration. If I do well here, and if UNOCHA sees my dedication, maybe the internship is real.
That thought warmed her chest, driving away the lingering bitterness of her track disappointment, at least for a moment.
--
A few rows away, tucked behind the library stacks, Aaliyah was also working. She’d chosen a secluded corner to finalize grading rubrics and plow through dissertation footnotes. The tension from the meet still weighed on her—she couldn’t forget Cruz’s anguished expression. The memory gnawed at her whenever her mind wandered. She hates me more than ever, doesn’t she?
She tried to focus on her document, cross-referencing citations. A cold coil formed in her stomach. She was nearing her own academic deadlines, and the emotional baggage with Cruz only made it harder to concentrate. Maybe it’s better we’re distant. She can’t stand me, and I have no right to push.
Peering at her phone, she wondered if Cruz might have emailed any questions about the final paper or exam. Unlikely. She doesn’t even want to see me, let alone ask for my help. That grim realization tightened her throat. This is what I wanted—professional boundaries.
Shaking off the melancholy, she resumed typing. Focus on what you can control. She refused to let heartbreak derail her dissertation progress.
--
By midnight, Cruz’s eyes burned from staring at her screen. She’d added a final flourish to her paper—an analysis of how NGO coordination in conflict zones hinged on local trust. The arguments felt cohesive, the references tight. She pressed save, relief washing over her. Done.
She double-checked formatting, appended her bibliography, then uploaded the file to the course portal. It’s official. Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes. She’d poured months of research into this project, ironically built on the foundation Aaliyah had helped her establish. We did good work. A pang of longing struck her, but she shoved it aside. Doesn’t matter. It’s done.
Now the final exam loomed, but Cruz had a decent grasp of the course material. I’ll just re-check the reading lists, do a thorough review. With a yawn, she decided to call it a night. Tomorrow’s problem.
She packed up and left the library, footsteps echoing in the near-empty corridors. Outside, a chilly wind cut through her hoodie. She pulled it tighter, heart still fluttering with the knowledge of that UNOCHA email. One small victory. Maybe I’m not a total failure.
--
The next day dawned gray and drizzly. Cruz woke to the sound of rain tapping her window. She’d slept fitfully, dreams of crossing a finish line morphing into images of a plane bound for Geneva. She shook off the lingering haze, grabbing her phone to see if there was any new response from UNOCHA. Nothing yet. They’ll need time, probably.
Bobby knocked on her door a moment later. “Hey, you alive in there? We’re thinking of grabbing coffee before class.”
Cruz rubbed her eyes. “I’m up. Give me five.”
She slipped on track pants and a sweatshirt, ignoring the swirl of nerves that accompanied the thought of Aaliyah. She’d likely see her in class again, the final exam looming, the tension unresolved. I can manage. I’m good at ignoring people now.
--
The day rolled on with the usual blur of lectures and errands. Cruz maintained her cold veneer whenever Aaliyah’s name was mentioned or if a classmate inquired about the track meet’s outcome. It’s done, she repeated, forcing a neutral tone.
By late afternoon, she found herself in Asif’s lecture hall. A subdued energy marked the nearing of the final days of the semester—students mentally gearing up for exams, handing in last assignments. Cruz slid into her seat, laptop closed, notes ready for any final clarifications.
Aaliyah hovered at the front, organizing a stack of papers. Cruz felt the usual prick of awareness. Stay cool. She stared at her notebook, ignoring the swirl in her stomach. The corners of her mind buzzed with the memory of that internship email. At least I have a potential future—no thanks to her. Then again, it was her contact. The contradictory thoughts churned.
Professor Asif arrived, kicking off the day’s review session. Cruz forced herself to remain engaged, scribbling down key points. Aaliyah occasionally interjected with clarifications. Cruz listened, face carefully expressionless, never once lifting her eyes. Just a few more days.
--
When class ended, some students approached Aaliyah for final paper questions. Cruz lingered at her seat, scanning the crowd. Should I just… leave? Part of her wanted to slip out unnoticed, but an inexplicable tug urged her to remain. You have no reason to talk to her, she reminded herself fiercely.
She stood, shouldering her backpack, glancing toward the cluster of students. Aaliyah looked as poised as ever, answering calmly. Cruz’s chest constricted. The memory of the track meet, the fence, the heartbreak, flashed across her mind. No—walk away.
Clenching her jaw, she turned and left. She didn’t see Aaliyah’s gaze flick up after she disappeared through the door.
--
That evening, Cruz found an unexpected message waiting in her inbox. The UNOCHA contact had replied warmly, suggesting they schedule a Zoom call within the next few days to discuss specifics. They’d seen her academic paper references, found her approach “thoughtful and passionate.” They believed she had the potential for a meaningful contribution.
Cruz’s breath caught. This is real. They even attached a preliminary outline of responsibilities—working alongside field operations, analyzing crisis data, drafting policy briefs, possibly traveling to conference sites.
Her head spun. They’re basically offering me a job in Geneva. Fear clashed with excitement. She pictured a new city, a new life, no track team, no dorm, no overshadowing heartbreak. Maybe this is exactly what I need.
She typed a polite reply:
Thank you so much. I’d be grateful to schedule a Zoom call soon. Let me know your availability.
Before hitting send, she hesitated. Should I share this with Bobby or Coach Joe? Possibly, but she decided to hold off. She wanted the conversation with UNOCHA first, to see if it was truly viable.
She pressed send, pulse racing. I have something to look forward to, she thought, a rare smile ghosting across her face.
--
The next day, while Cruz wrestled with newfound hope, Aaliyah found herself in a quiet storm of emotions. Her dissertation deadlines pressed in, but that was normal. What felt heavier was the sense that Cruz had truly shut her out. She’d glimpsed the younger woman leaving class, saw the tension in her rigid shoulders. No chance to even attempt bridging the gap.
Nights found Aaliyah restless, wondering if Cruz’s final paper had turned out well, or how she was coping post-track season. She nearly typed a message in the class forum, praising Cruz’s thoroughness, but decided it was inappropriate for a public forum. Boundaries, remember?
The next morning, she rummaged in her email for any sign of Cruz’s final assignment. As TA, she saw the submission mark, glanced at it briefly—excellent references, well-structured. Pride flared at the thought that Cruz had truly nailed it academically. Then sorrow followed: I can’t even congratulate her properly.
She forced herself to keep busy, telling her heart to hush. Meanwhile, Cruz kept her phone and inbox closely monitored for the UNOCHA follow-up, still telling no one about the potential leap to Geneva.
--
A few days later, as Cruz walked with Bobby to the dining hall, her friend noticed the subdued spark in her eyes. “You seem… different,” Bobby remarked, side-eyeing her. “Less doom-and-gloom. Something up?”
Cruz shrugged, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine. Maybe I’m just relieved the semester’s almost over.”
Bobby narrowed her gaze. “Spill. You can’t hide from me. You do this scrunchy thing with your nose when you’re holding in big news.”
Cruz huffed a laugh, touching her nose self-consciously. “No big news. Just feeling better about my final paper.”
Bobby rolled her eyes but let it drop, though suspicion lingered on her face. If she only knew. Cruz felt a pang of guilt but stayed quiet. I’ll tell her soon enough, once it’s confirmed.
They reached the dining hall, and the topic shifted to track gossip. Still, Bobby kept glancing at Cruz like she was a puzzle waiting to be solved.
--
As the final exam date in Asif’s class loomed, Cruz spent her nights pouring over lecture notes, reviewing Middle Eastern historical contexts, memorizing key treaties and colonial legacies. She found a surprising sense of calm in structured studying—no running away on the track, no emotional showdowns. Just knowledge, black and white.
In fleeting moments, her mind drifted to Geneva. She pictured the UNOCHA offices, drafting policy briefs, maybe traveling to conflict zones. A small thrill of purpose surged. This is bigger than me. Maybe I can actually help.
But each time she checked her phone or email for an update from UNOCHA, she felt a faint tremor of nerves. What if they change their mind? She told herself not to get too invested, but it was too late. The seed of hope had taken root.
--
At last, the UNOCHA contact proposed a time for a quick phone call before scheduling a formal interview. Cruz confirmed, picking a late-night slot to account for the time zone difference. Nerves, get ready, she muttered, waiting for the call.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, dorm lights dim, she felt her heart hammer as the phone buzzed with an international number. This is it.
“Hello?” she answered, voice trembling.
“Hello, Cruz. This is Janine from UNOCHA in Geneva,” came a warm voice, lightly accented. “Am I catching you at a good time?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Cruz said, forcing confidence.
They spoke for fifteen minutes. Janine asked about Cruz’s motivation for humanitarian work, her research on NGOs, the final paper’s focus on tribal governance. Cruz answered with earnest detail, adrenaline coursing through her. I know this stuff, she reminded herself.
“Your passion for the subject is clear,” Janine remarked. “We have an opening in our operations support unit. It starts as a paid internship, with the possibility of extending to a junior officer role if it fits well. Are you open to relocating soon?”
Cruz’s throat went dry. “I— yes, if the timing works out. I’m graduating in a few weeks.”
“Perfect,” Janine said. “We’ll schedule a formal Zoom interview with the head of the unit. If all goes well, we’d aim for a start date in early summer. How does that sound?”
Cruz pressed a hand to her chest, disbelief mingling with joy. “It sounds fantastic. Thank you so much.”
She hung up in a daze, phone clutched in her hand. An interview with the head of the unit… they’re serious. Her future was no longer a blank wall of anxiety—it had a pathway, maybe. Geneva… I might actually do it.
--
Snapping out of her reverie, Cruz realized she still hadn’t told Bobby or Coach Joe or anyone about this. She chewed her lip, torn. I don’t want to jinx it, or have them talk me out of it. Or worse, have them push me to discuss it with Aaliyah.
She tucked her phone away, hugging her knees to her chest. Aaliyah gave me this contact, indirectly. But after everything… I can’t face her. Not like this. Even if she’d wanted to say thank you, the wounds felt too raw.
Maybe once I’m accepted, I’ll shoot her a short email. That’s it. She blew out a breath, tension draining slowly. She stared at the dorm ceiling. I’m not the worthless runner who couldn’t finish strong. I have other talents.
A cautious excitement bloomed within her. Despite the heartbreak, the uncertain living situation post-graduation, and the final exam looming, a glimmer of possibility now guided her. Just hold on to that, she told herself, letting her eyes close. Sleep came easier than it had in weeks.
--
In the following days, Cruz continued studying for the final exam in Asif’s class, her mind sharper now that a hopeful future beckoned. She devoted hours to memorizing key political shifts, summarizing research articles, and re-reading Aaliyah’s recommended sources—though the latter name stung each time it appeared. I can’t keep letting her live rent-free in my head.
She also noticed Aaliyah’s presence less, or so she told herself, focusing on burying any leftover bitterness. I have bigger things to handle. The upcoming Zoom interview overshadowed everything else, fueling a quiet determination.
Occasionally, she spotted Aaliyah at the front of the lecture hall, rummaging with assignments. Their eyes never met. Cruz left quickly after each session, no lingering. The silence between them felt permanent, yet it stung less with every day that passed. Maybe time truly dulls the edges.
--
For Aaliyah, the days passed in a haze of grading final papers, reviewing exam questions with Asif, and finalizing dissertation chapters. She kept to herself, noticing Cruz only in fleeting glimpses. The anguish of the track meet confrontation still hovered, but with no new incidents, the tension solidified into a resigned distance.
One afternoon, as she cleared her TA office, she thought about the NGO contact who’d praised Cruz earlier. I wonder if Cruz ever followed up. She considered emailing to check, but dismissed the idea. She’d hate me meddling, especially now.
She told herself it was for the best. If Cruz found an opportunity, she’d be free to chase it—away from the heartbreak, away from the mess they’d created. And I’ll stay here, finishing my PhD, letting her live her life. The hollow pang of loss persisted, but she clung to her academic responsibilities like a lifeline.
--
Thus, as the semester neared its final crunch, Cruz juggled her exam prep, quiet relief at finishing Asif’s major paper, and clandestine excitement about Geneva. She occasionally scrolled through pictures of the UNOCHA building, imagining the corridors she might walk. The sense of direction steadied her spirit.
She told no one, not yet. Even Bobby, suspicious as she was, remained in the dark. Cruz needed time to confirm the Zoom interview date, to pass Asif’s final exam, and to break the news on her own terms. I can do this.
Late one night, she re-read the email chain from Janine, smiling despite herself. It felt surreal to be on the cusp of something bigger than she’d ever dreamed. She sank into bed, phone in hand, letting the screen’s glow lull her with promises of a new start.
--
Meanwhile, in quiet moments at the front of the lecture hall or in the TA office, Aaliyah sometimes caught herself hoping to see an email from Cruz about “some exciting news.” The tension between them aside, she recognized Cruz’s aptitude for humanitarian research. She deserves a break. Yet no such email arrived, just the standard course communications. She doesn’t need me anymore.
One day, after finishing a private chat with another student, she stepped into the hallway and spotted Cruz in the distance, texting on her phone. A twinge of sadness gripped her. She considered approaching—maybe just a small “hey, how’s it going?” But the memory of their last confrontation stopped her cold. She’d only pull away again.
So she let Cruz vanish around the corner, the unspoken gratitude or goodbye lingering like a lost note in a silent corridor.
--
With her final paper submitted and the official last quiz complete, Cruz walked out of Asif’s classroom feeling lighter. She’d aced all the assignments so far—just the final exam remained in a few weeks. Her phone buzzed with a new email from Janine: Proposed Zoom Interview Date: Next Week, 9 AM EST.
Cruz’s heart leaped. That’s the day after the exam. Perfect timing. She replied swiftly, confirming her availability. Excitement mingled with nerves in her veins. After the final, I’ll have a day to breathe, then the interview.
She clutched her phone, crossing campus under a bright midday sky. The swirl of possibilities invigorated her. I might be heading to Geneva soon. That’s insane. The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, fueling her steps with renewed purpose.
--
On her way back to the dorm, Cruz overheard some track teammates talking about the “big blowout.” She’d tried to ignore it, but the chatter was everywhere. It was set for a Saturday night, a few weeks before finals started. People called it the “ultimate stress relief.”
She frowned, recalling the halfhearted promise she’d made to Tex about showing up. I guess I can drop by. Maybe it’d be a final chance to say goodbye to her track friends, the ones who stood by her all four years. And who knows, maybe if I land the Geneva job, I won’t be back here for a while.
A twinge of unease flared at the idea. But what if she’s there? Her heart hammered. No… she wouldn’t. Aaliyah was a TA, older, not the party type. Cruz forcibly pushed the thought aside, focusing on the meeting she had with her final exam study group. One step at a time.
--
By week’s end, Cruz had confirmed the Zoom interview date with UNOCHA, studied diligently for her final, and kept her distance from Aaliyah. Her sense of heartbreak dulled under the weight of new aspirations. I can do this on my own.
She spent her last days before the exam in the library with Bobby and a few classmates, quizzing each other on key events, historical treaties, major political figures. The material came naturally now, her mind sharper than ever. Even the track fiasco felt like a fading scar. I’m forging a new path.
Late at night, she sometimes stared at her phone, the old contact info for Aaliyah’s reference still pinned. She has no idea I’m about to interview for a job in Geneva. The pang of wanting to share the news lingered, but she crushed it. She doesn’t need me. And I don’t need her.
At least, that was the story she told herself to keep the pain at bay.
--
As the final exam day loomed, Cruz felt a steadiness settle into her bones. She had her notes compiled, her mind well-ordered. Her track career was over, but her academic chapter was winding down with a strong finish. The possibility of Geneva hovered like a guiding star, reminding her that she wasn’t trapped in the aftermath of a failed race or heartbreak.
She closed her laptop one evening after a thorough review session, glancing at her reflection in the dark screen. You’re okay. She let that reassurance echo, ignoring the tiny voice that whispered about Aaliyah. Focus on the exam, then the interview, then everything else.
Outside, the dorm hallway bustled with students finishing final projects. The end-of-semester frenzy was in full swing. Cruz took a deep breath, letting a shard of optimism light her mood. I’m on the verge of something big. I can’t wait.
She fell asleep envisioning the UNOCHA offices, the crisp Swiss air, and a future she could shape on her own terms—far from the shadows of heartbreak she was leaving behind.