Ama sat on the edge of the hostel bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The day had been long, not in hours that always passed, but in weight. Her lecturer had returned her assignment with a red slash across the front page. “See me,” it read. Her group members had met without her. Her phone screen was cracked. Her heart, too, felt fractured.
She hadn’t eaten since morning. Not because there was no food, but because her stomach had curled in on itself, refusing comfort. Life, it seemed, had conspired to remind her of every reason to feel hurt, disappointed, or simply tired.
She stared at the wall, where a faint crack ran from the ceiling to the floor like a scar. It reminded her of herself, not broken, but marked.
Then, as the sun dipped low, a breeze slipped through the window. It carried the scent of fried plantain from the vendor downstairs, laughter from the corridor, and the distant hum of a gospel song someone played without shame. Ama closed her eyes. The breeze touched her skin like a whisper: You are still here.
She opened her eyes and saw her roommate’s mug, chipped but clean, sitting beside a folded note. You’re stronger than you think, it said in looping handwriting.
Ama smiled, just a little. Life would always offer reasons to feel hurt or disappointed. But also, if one paid attention, there were quiet moments of beauty. A breeze. A note. A song. A smile.
She stood, stretched, and walked to her desk. The assignment could wait. For now, she would eat, she would breathe, and she would let the beauty in.
