Emily didn't come to find her again very soon.
Now and then, something with Emily in it would jump out on Instagram, parties, games, sun by the river, picnics on the college lawn. Emily was often just off to the side, not necessarily the main focus, but always clear. Every time, Zola would tap for the full image, look at it for a moment, then back out without liking or commenting, as if she were watching, from far away, a timeline that had nothing to do with her.
What really let her "see" Emily again was the campus.
Once, it was at the library entrance. The weather was rare and clean that day, sunlight slanting down along the eaves of the old building, washing over steps and people and making everything look a little lighter. Zola came out with an armful of books. Her eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the light before she noticed a small patch of subtle commotion at the bottom of the stairs.
It wasn't loud, just… fuller. Three or four girls stood in a loose half-circle, not too close and not too far, coffee cups and phones in their hands, laughter soft, posture easy. In the middle of them stood Emily.
Emily wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, pale jeans and a pair of plain-looking trainers that still, at a glance, gave away their price. Her hair was down, lifted a little by the wind; in the sunlight it really did seem to glow—not in a harsh way, but in that way that made people want to look twice, their hearts tightening just a little.
Zola lingered at the door, pretending to adjust the books in her arms while she watched.
The girls were talking to Emily, and their faces had a natural tilt towards her, their bodies angled slightly in, the topic flowing automatically in her direction. Even when Emily wasn't speaking, there was a kind of calm at the centre around her. When she smiled or lifted her hand to gesture, the others' laughter followed her rhythm without needing to be cued.
Zola suddenly thought of the word "orbit." Some people, once they appeared, brought their own gravity with them. Others didn't move towards them on purpose; they simply fell in line.
When she lowered her eyes, she caught another detail.
There were several bracelets around Emily's wrist, thin circles of metal with a restrained glint in the light. One of them was a narrow gold bangle with a tiny logo worked into it. Zola knew it. Back in C country, the shop windows in the big malls had rows of advertisements for that brand. Another was the kind with small, sharp studs; she'd seen it online, described as an "entry piece," though the price had been enough to make her quietly close the page.
For a second, Zola felt… dazed.
So those things that only existed in commercials and in the glass cases at airport duty-free shops were, in real life, just loosely hanging on someone's wrist, as casually as a random string of beads. Not worn to show off, more like something that had always been there.
She looked away, down at the strip of wrist visible beneath her own sleeve. Her skin wasn't bad, but the emptiness was obvious. Nothing on it. Even the silver bracelet her family had given her, she hadn't brought to Y country—too heavy, and she'd been afraid of losing it.
She didn't really want those bracelets. Or rather, she knew very well that even if they were on her own wrist, she wouldn't suddenly become someone else. And yet when she saw Emily lift her hair and that little flash of metal glowed peacefully in the sun, there was still a small, sour tug in her chest.
She wasn't jealous of those pieces of jewellery.
She was jealous of that state of "owning as a matter of course."
Another time, it was in the college courtyard. At lunch, the grass was dotted with students; some lay in the sun, some clustered around sandwiches. Zola sat at the very end of a bench with her sandwich in hand, her backpack beside her, ready to read while she ate.
When she looked up, she noticed a boy standing in the shadow of the opposite cloister, shoulder against the wall, head down over his phone, glancing every so often towards the path. He wore a hoodie and jeans, hair a little messy, trainers still relatively new. He wasn't waiting for "someone to pass by"; that kind of waiting had a direction.
A few minutes later, Emily came down that path.
The boy straightened at once, stepping out of the shadow as if it were a coincidence. Zola, across the lawn, could only just catch their expressions. The boy was a little nervous, his smile trying a bit too hard; Emily, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease. She stopped, listened to him, her head tilted, hair falling across her shoulder, nodding now and then.
Zola didn't know what they were saying. She only saw Emily smile politely when he finished, not too much, not too little, then say something, reach out to lightly tap his arm, and turn away. The boy stayed where he was, watching her walk off, that expression on his face, knowing he hadn't succeeded, yet still feeling that being seen by her at all was enough. Even at a distance, Zola could read it.
She almost wanted to laugh, but she couldn't.
She thought about the welcome party, "Is this seat taken?" as Emily walked towards her; thought of the wood-toned perfume when she'd leaned in; thought of that casual "Let's meet again," which had sounded so offhand and yet so much like it had been decided a long time ago.
Emily's icon remained on Instagram with a pale ring of story light around it. Every time Zola unlocked her phone, she saw it, and then deliberately pretended not to, setting the phone face down on the desk.
Emily didn't message her. She didn't message Emily either.
Sometimes she comforted herself: everyone was trying to adapt, making friends, learning their way around, writing and reading responses; no one was obliged to remember one brief conversation in a corner of a hall.
But every time she saw Emily on campus—surrounded by people, with someone waiting to talk to her, sunlight catching on her hair and her bracelets, even the swing of her skirt seeming calculated—Zola would quietly draw in on herself.
It wasn't that she thought she was unlikable.
It was just that the way Emily moved through the world, being "chosen first" again and again, was something else entirely.
You couldn't explain that difference. You couldn't measure it. But it existed in a very concrete way.
Concrete enough that, whenever she saw Emily from a distance, Zola would automatically straighten her back, then quickly tuck herself a little deeper into the crowd.
A few days later, Zola got a message.
Not a long one, just a simple line:
Coffee? 4 PM. The café near the old gate. —E
The "E" at the end looked like a mark that was expected to be recognised, no full name, no explanation.
Zola stared at the screen for a few seconds, heart speeding up for no good reason, then, forcing herself to wait three minutes, finally replied:
Okay.
She even deleted the "sounds nice" she'd typed after it, afraid it would look too eager.
The café was near the old college gate. Ivy climbed the stone walls, and the bell over the door chimed with a clear note, like some old piece of silver. The air inside smelled of coffee oil and a little caramel and butter, a soft sweetness that seemed designed to persuade people to put their guard down.
When Zola pushed the door open, she saw Emily at once.
Emily was by the window, legs crossed, back straight, head slightly tilted, one hand resting on the page of a book. Sunlight fell on her hair, the pale gold catching the light like a slow-burning flame.
It wasn't a posed kind of beauty, but that ease you only saw in people who had long since learnt how to exist under the world's gaze without trying.
Zola walked over. Emily looked up and smiled.
It wasn't a big smile, but it landed in exactly the right place, just enough to make someone feel welcome rather than summoned.
"Hi," Emily said. "You look nice today."
Zola blinked. She'd only tied her hair a bit tighter and put on a clean sweater. But Emily's tone didn't sound like flattery; it sounded more like a quiet confirmation. She treated this meeting seriously.
The barista came over to ask what she wanted.
Zola glanced at Emily's cup of black coffee. It sat there, dark and calm, like a kind of grown-up attitude that needed no justification.
"Same," she blurted.
Emily glanced sideways at her, lips tilting slightly, not in smugness, but with something like a "good, you're willing to try" approval.
Soon the coffee arrived. Dark, still, steam curling slowly up.
Before Zola could speak, Emily gently slid her own cup to the side and looked up.
"Wait," she said.
She picked up her phone.
Zola froze; she knew what that meant.
They weren't just going to have coffee.
This moment was going to be turned into something that counted.
Emily adjusted the plate, the fork, the cups until they looked like a quiet still-life.
"Come closer," she murmured.
It wasn't really a request. It was a natural invitation, almost impossible to refuse.
Zola moved in, the distance shrinking until she could smell Emily's perfume again that faint wood-and-green scent, clearer than at the party, like a half-open door you stepped through without quite meaning to.
Emily raised the phone, then lowered her voice:
"Your hand here."
Zola did as she was told.
The sound of the shutter was very soft, but it felt strangely final.
Emily chose a photo, opened the text bar. Zola pretended to be looking out of the window, but couldn't help glancing over.
A single word appeared:
friend🤍
Not the polite "meet up,"not the distant "new friend,"but simple, direct—friend.
That small white heart looked light, almost playful, but it landed in Zola's chest like a stamp.
When Emily posted it, her profile icon lit up with a pale ring, a little public halo.
Staring at that circle, Zola realised:She hadn't just had coffee.She'd been dropped into Emily's field of vision.
Desserts arrived after that.
The lemon tart shone as if someone had polished the surface with sunlight; the pistachio cake sat there soft and muted.
"Try," Emily said, nudging a fork towards her.
"Life here tastes better when you let yourself try."
Zola cut a piece.
The sourness came first, then a slow, gentle sweetness.
"…Not bad," she murmured.
Emily smiled as if she'd known that would be the answer.
When the bill came, Emily reached for her purse.
Zola quickly put out a hand. "Let me pay. I don't want to—"
Emily looked up.
Her gaze was too gentle, but there was a sharpness under it that made refusal impossible.
"Zola," she said softly, "you don't owe me anything. Not this."
She paused, put her card away, her voice dropping but turning more certain.
"Just give me one thing."
Zola lifted her head.
Emily's eyes held hers as she said, slowly:
"Give me the chance to see you again."
The words dropped into the air like a key falling quietly onto the floor.
Zola's heartbeat stumbled. All she could do was nod.
"Okay."
Emily's smile was small, but it had the air of something confirmed rather than something won.
As if she'd known the answer all along.
After that, they left the café together.
Outside, the breeze was light and the shadows of the trees moved lazily. Dusk was thinning out, streetlights blinking on one by one, softening the edges of the street.
Emily walked beside Zola, unhurried, with that natural energy to her step.
At the corner, she stopped and turned to her, as if wanting to make sure.
"Next Saturday?" she asked, voice light but carrying a hint of testing. "Same time. Same place."
Zola hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Yes."
Emily showed a rare hint of shyness—gentle, but still measured. She lowered her head to straighten her cuff, as if giving the words somewhere to land.
"I don't know why," she said slowly, "but I feel… close to you. In a way I can't really explain."
The word "close" didn't ring loudly, but it made something inside Zola tremble.
She wanted to reply, but didn't know what tone would make her sound neither stupid nor insincere, so she just said quietly, "I feel that too."
Emily looked up, smile soft and pale.
"Good," she said. "Then next week."
She waved goodbye and turned away, like someone already certain she would be remembered.
The next Saturday, Zola was there ten minutes early.
The light in the café was softer than last time. Sunlight came through the patchy windowpanes, the smell of coffee drifting between tables like a promise.
Zola sat by the window with a cup in front of her that she barely touched.
4:10.
4:20.
4:27.
Her phone lit up and went dark, lit up and went dark. Still no message.
Just when she thought Emily wasn't coming, the doorbell chimed.
Emily came in—slightly windswept, slightly rushed, but still beautiful. As she walked towards Zola, there was genuine apology on her face.
"Zola, I'm so sorry." She sat down, her voice so honest it was hard to blame her. "I ran into a friend on the way. He wouldn't stop talking and—"
She sighed lightly, as if cross with herself.
"I didn't mean to make you wait."
Zola shook her head. "It's okay."
Emily looked at her for a few seconds, as if weighing whether she really meant it, then smiled.
"Thank you. You're… very patient. Not many people are."
Something tightened in Zola's chest. She wasn't sure if it was shyness or that strange warmth you felt when someone really saw you.
"Actually…" Emily went on, "he's still outside. He asked if we could join him. He wants to go shopping. Would you mind?"
Zola froze for a moment.
Of course she wanted to say: I just want it to be the two of us.
But her lips moved a few times, and in the end all that came out, soft and obedient, was: "No. I don't mind."
Emily's smile brightened a little.
They left the café together.
A dark sports car was parked at the curb, clean lines and a deep, cold shine on the paintwork.
The man leaning against it noticed them and lifted his chin in greeting, a casual, effortless gesture from someone used to taking up space.
"Sorry for the wait," Emily called lightly.
He just smiled, walked around to the other side and opened the rear door for them.
It was a practiced kind of chivalry, no performance, just habit.
As Zola slid into the car, her fingers tightened around the edge of the seat.
The leather was soft and expensive. The air inside smelled of perfume and petrol, a scent that clearly belonged to someone else's world.
The man took the front passenger seat.
In the rear-view mirror, Zola saw Emily lifting her hand to fix her hair, the gold bracelets on her wrist catching the light in a quiet flash.
In that instant, Zola was reminded, all over again: Emily came from a world she had never lived in.
The shopping mall looked cold from the outside—grey stone, no loud ads, no need.
People who truly belonged there didn't need signs.
As soon as the car stopped, staff came to open the door.
Not too fast, not too slow.
Just the right rhythm for money that could be counted on.
Emily walked ahead, steps light and easy, as if she were coming back, not arriving.
Zola followed half a step behind, instinctively slowing just a little, as if that could hide that this was her first time.
The entrance to the luxury store was lit with the kind of brightness that looked measured. The marble floor was polished enough to catch reflections; the lighting was soft yet sharp on the glass cases, making every item look like it was waiting to be chosen, not bought.
What struck Zola first wasn't the bags, but thesilence.
The kind of silence that only existed where things were expensive.
No one jostled. No one sighed and walked away. No one rummaged. There were no words like "sale" or "promotion."
Everything stood there with… dignity.
The staff recognised Emily, and the professional smile on the woman's face immediately softened into something warmer.
"Welcome back, Miss Hale."
It was the first time Zola had heard Emily's surname.
In that moment, she understood:
Emily wasn't here to shop.
She was here to collect something that already belonged to her.
"Would you like the private room today?" the woman asked gently.
Emily nodded. "Yes."
So there was no queue, no waiting. They were led straight to the back, through a half-hidden glass door that opened at a touch.
The VIP room was different from the main floor.
Quieter. Softer. More like an executive suite in a hotel.
The walls were covered in pale suede, the carpet thick enough to swallow footsteps. There were fresh flowers on the table, not ordinary roses but carefully chosen blooms all in shades of ivory.
Two glasses of water were brought in, with a thin slice of lemon on each rim. Then a small silver tray appeared, carrying neat little squares of dark chocolate and handmade nutty sweets.
Zola couldn't help a small intake of breath.
The luxury here wasn't about glitter.
It was about things being effortlessly, unquestioningly good.
Emily slipped off her coat and dropped it loosely over the back of the chair, perfectly at home.
Zola, meanwhile, sat very straight, as if sinking too far into the softness might expose how out of place she was.
Before she could think too much, a pale gold trolley was pushed in.
Two bags lay on top, covered with silk cloths.
"Miss Hale," the staff woman said with just the right smile, "your order has arrived. And we also have a few new season pieces I thought you might want to see."
She lifted the silk slowly, as if she were uncovering history, not leather.
Underneath was a bag. Nothing flamboyant, but the lines were so clean it couldn't look anything but expensive.
The leather was soft, matte, with that quiet feel of something that was a classic even before touching the air.
Emily picked it up, her hands gentle and practised. She ran her fingers along the corners, tried the strap, like someone raised to choose, not simply accept.
Zola watched from her chair, not daring to move closer.
Even standing too near felt like a kind of offence.
"This one is hand-stitched," the woman was saying. "It took more than thirty hours. Calfskin from our winter selection. Limited piece—only twenty-five in Europe."
Emily only nodded lightly. "I know."
Zola listened to the numbers and did her own silent arithmetic.
The price of that bag, Enough for three months' rent, food, and a semester's worth of books.
Or,
Enough that she wouldn't have to live with a calculator open in the back of her mind.
In that moment, she realised it wasn't the bag she envied.
It was that kind of freedom, the freedom to make choices without the numbers joining in.
When Emily started comparing colours and strap styles, she tried one after another in the mirror, movements slow and focussed, as if she were checking that her reflection still matched the image in her head.
Zola stood off to the side, not sure what to do with her hands. She looked down at her own shoes, at the pills on her cardigan, at the soft carpet under her feet—starting to feel more and more like a stand-in on someone else's set.
Marco seemed to pick up on her discomfort.
Leaning back in the chair, he spoke casually, voice low but enough to summon a staff member at once.
"Bring her some options," he said, as if commenting on the weather.
Zola's head snapped up. "No, I'm fine. Really."
But before the words were even fully out, the staff member had already smiled and disappeared through the door.
Less than a minute later, a smaller trolley was rolled in. On it were several bags—smaller, softer colours, obviously entry-level.
"These are very classic pieces," the staffer said in that trained, velvety voice. "Perfect for someone starting their collection."
Zola choked on the phrase.
She didn't even have a "collection." She could barely manage "is there enough in my account."
"They're nice, but." she began, forcing a smile.
Before she could finish, one of the bags was gently placed in her hands.
For a moment she felt ridiculous. If she refused, she'd look rude; if she accepted, she'd look like she was taking herself too seriously.
In the end she could only take it.
The leather was almost unnaturally soft, like time itself had been used to knead it. The bag was light as folded wind, and yet the thought of the price gave it weight.
She tried it on in front of the mirror.
For a moment, the girl in the glass wasn't her.
She looked like some version of herself being slowly reshaped.
Quieter, more polished, more… admitted.
Then, in the next heartbeat, the whole thing struck her as absurd. This wasn't her world. She was just a side note, someone who came along for the ride.
She hurried to take the bag off, laughing a little. "No, it's too..."
Before she could find the right adjective, Emily cut in.
"This colour looks good on you," she said lightly. It didn't sound like a suggestion. It sounded like a verdict.
Zola's heart skipped.
She couldn't tell whether she'd been complimented, or gently pinned into place.
A little later, Emily tried on a set of jewellery from the new line. The design was delicate but trying a bit too hard to be clever.
She put on a pair of earrings, then took them off and shook her head. "No. Not right."
Zola could almost hear her own relief—finally.
Marco got to his feet and moved to stand beside Emily.
"So just the bag?" he asked.
Emily looked up and gave him a small, sure smile.
"Yes, Marco. Just the bag."
He nodded, like a man satisfied with how his investment was going.
Then he turned his head towards the staff, voice level.
"And the small one she tried."
Zola froze, not immediately understanding that the "she" meant her.
By the time she did, she was already speaking too fast.
"No...Marco...you don't need to..."
He lifted a hand, not so much to stop her as to wave away the whole question.
"Consider it an apology," he said, calm and impossible to refuse, "for keeping you waiting earlier."
He didn't even look directly at her as he spoke.
As if this wasn't a "gift," but something that obviously needed to be done.
The staff worked quickly, placing both bags in separate hard boxes, wrapping them in tissue, fastening the ribbons until everything was perfect.
Zola stood there, pulse pounding.
On the outside she still looked stiff and polite, but inside her head it was already one long, wordless scream:
Ahhhhh this kind of apology, please, bring it on every single day!!!!
Yet all she managed aloud was:
"…thank you."
Marco only nodded, no extra expression at all—as if she hadn't just been handed something enormous, only… brought one small step closer into a set of rules that had been waiting before she arrived.