Zola hadn't known a restaurant could be silent like an interrogation.
When they arrived, the sky had just slipped into darkness. Streetlamps flickered on, their reflections gliding over the wet cobblestones like cold light brushed thin. The person waiting at the door wasn't a waiter, but a host in a crisp suit, polite, composed, and clearly not someone one could casually approach.
"Reservation name, please?"
Emily smoothed her coat, unhurried, her tone immaculate:
"Hale."
The host nodded, not like checking a booking, but like acknowledging a familiar name.
He stepped aside, his gesture precise and welcoming in a way that made Zola painfully aware that she wasn't here on her own merit. She was being brought in.
Inside, the lighting was low—not dim, but that intentional warmth that made every face more elegant, every glass shine. Tables stood a deliberate distance apart, each its own private world.
The waiters moved silently; even pouring water sounded rehearsed.
Emily sat down like she belonged—like she'd always belonged. She flipped through the menu casually, as if revising something she already knew.
Zola opened hers.
No photos. Just French names, and prices aligned neatly to the right. Numbers like a quiet execution.
She instinctively converted them into her weekly living budget.
Her spine stiffened.
"You should try this," Emily pointed lightly to a signature dish.
Before Zola could protest, before she could even pretend to think, the waiter nodded, the order taken. A few hundred pounds decided as calmly as the weather.
The first dish arrived.
A thin, translucent slice of fish laid like a piece of art, garnished with three pearls of caviar—carelessly precise, intentionally accidental. Zola hesitated: was she supposed to finish the bread? Which fork? Which knife?
She glanced at Emily.
Emily cut, paused, tasted, a sip of wine, a quiet "Good."
Zola imitated.
She felt like she was sitting in an exam.
Halfway through the meal, someone approached. Tall, confident. The kind of smile that came from certainty the certainty of always being welcomed.
"Emily? Didn't expect to see you here."
Emily's smile was perfect—polite, familiar, controlled:
"Hi."
Then he noticed Zola.
"This is Zola," Emily introduced, "We're in the same college."
A single sentence, yet Zola felt herself being pinned onto Emily's social map.
He offered a mock kiss on her hand—performative, chivalrous, almost theatrical. Zola froze a second too long.
He even attempted to pay, but Emily declined with a soft, graceful refusal:
"No, thank you. We're fine."
A refusal that sounded like:
You're lovely.
Just not needed.
He stepped away, regretful enough to look back.
And then, Marco.
Dark suit, subtle watch, understated cufflinks.Not wealthy. Well beyond needing to prove wealth.
"Emily." His voice was smooth, familiar.
Emily seemed surprised—but never startled.
"Marco? What are you doing here?"
"Friends. Drinks. You?"
"Dinner."
He nodded. His eyes shifted to Zola—courteous yet assessing:
"Zola. Nice seeing you again."
"Me too," she murmured.
He didn't linger. Just raised his glass—less a toast, more a quiet guarantee.
By the time Zola reached for her wallet, the waiter spoke:
"The bill has already been taken care of."
Zola blinked.
Marco at the bar raised his glass again, permission granted, debt sealed.
Outside, the cold air felt too crisp. A dark car pulled up; Marco opened the door for them:
"Let me give you a ride."
Inside—soft leather, clean scent, moving lights across tinted windows.
Zola sat stiffly, calculating the cost of dinner
…while also knowing: Without Emily, without Marco—she would never see this city from this angle.
The car stopped in front of her dorm.
A small pastry bag in her hands—a dessert Emily insisted she take home.
By the entrance stood three girls from her home country—milk tea in hand, gossip mid-air. They froze when they saw the car.
"Woah… a sports car?"
"What did you eat? Looks fancy."
An exaggerated wink:
"Back from a date?"
Zola smiled lightly, afraid a stronger smile might spill secrets:
"Just dinner."
Inside the building, as the door closed behind her, her heart flickered with something hot:
Pride.
Vanity.
A dangerous sweetness.
The kind sweet enough to make you forget where you started.
The sky outside had no right to be that bright.
It was one of those impossibly clean English winter mornings, rare, sharp, and washed-out blue. And yet, Zola couldn't bring herself to care.
She sat at her desk, hair tangled from hours of absent-minded tugging, like a crumpled shirt no one bothered to iron. Notes, reading lists, a second-hand textbook with soft corners, and a cup of instant coffee gone cold were scattered across the table. She couldn't taste it anymore—but she couldn't throw it away either.
She stared at the paragraph on her laptop. The English words lined up neatly, disciplined, obedient, yet the longer she looked, the more they felt armed. Armed and pointed at her.
Two weeks until the deadline.
She felt like a trapped animal, one that struggled harder only to prove there was no exit.
Her hand moved to her hair again, rough and restless, as if she could claw the frustration out by force. She muttered something under her breath, half in English, half in Chinese, neither kinder than the other.
Her phone buzzed.
She ignored it at first. Probably another university reminder, or one of those emails pretending to be urgent when it clearly wasn't.
The second buzz came.
She reached for it like someone waking from a half-dream.
Emily.
Just one line. No greeting. No explanation.
Nails. 3 PM. A place you'll like. Don't say no. Please.
The last line read casually, but it carried a quiet authority, the kind that didn't need emphasis. It wasn't an invitation. It was a notification.
Zola stared at the message for a long moment.
Now? She hesitated and then, because exhaustion sometimes disguises itself as surrender, she typed:
Okay.
The nail salon wasn't far from the university, but it felt worlds away.
When she pushed open the frosted glass door, she wondered if she'd mistaken the address. No loud branding, no glittering cheap decor, just a discreet gold lettering, elegant enough to feel like a secret kept only by those invited.
A light scent drifted in the air, not sugary diffuser sweetness, but wood and cedar, warm and restrained, the kind that made people unconsciously correct their posture.
Emily was already inside.
She sat on a sofa with one leg crossed over the other, idly flipping through a fashion magazine. When she looked up, she smiled—soft, almost approving.
"Right on time."
It sounded like praise without offering her the space to feel proud of it.
Zola smiled back, unaware that the smile held the shape of carefulness.
At the counter, the receptionist asked, "Miss Hale and…?"
Emily answered smoothly, without missing a beat: "My friend."
The words fell lightly, but not casually. As if the category had already been assigned.
A technician led them into a private room, not a shared table, but an intimate space with warm lighting and a marble workstation. Even the tools gleamed with a deliberate, quiet precision.
Zola sank into the chair. It was soft—not cushiony, but ergonomic, calculated.
A tray of colour samples was placed before her—not cheap plastic swatches but delicate porcelain tiles, each painted with perfect polish.
Zola lowered her gaze to her hands, dry cuticles, uneven nails, and faint traces of where she had chewed them during stress.
For a moment, she wanted to hide them.
Emily noticed.
She pointed to a muted milk-coffee shade.
"This one," she said. "It'll look soft on you."
Zola murmured a small sound—not quite yes, not quite no. A permission, maybe.
The technician took her hand with practised gentleness.
"Beautiful skin tone," she said. "This colour will be perfect."
Being examined like that—slowly, intentionally was unsettling. Not flattering. Exposing.
Like someone turning on a soft lamp over something she had long stopped looking at.
Warm water was brought to her fingertips. Steam rose, mint and lemon. Her hands slipped into the bowl, and heat unfurled into her bones.
Emily watched her, quiet, observant, like someone witnessing a transformation she had requested.
"Feels nice, right?"
Zola nodded.
This time, without pretending detachment.
The process took time.
Buffing. Filing. Massaging.
Not grooming, ritual.
When the shape was done, neat, symmetrical, elegant. Zola understood, perhaps for the first time: Even nails can be a language.
Emily lifted her phone. "Hold your hand like this...yes."
Their hands appeared in the frame: Emily's long fingers, metal bracelet, and composure. Zola's newly softened, newly deliberate, almost shy.
Moments later, the story went up.
Caption: Treating ourselves 🤍✨
Zola's phone vibrated with the notification.
Her chest tightened, not pride.
Something stranger.
For the first time, she existed not beside someone's life, but inside it.
When everything was done, the technician handed her a small gift box with a tiny bottle of cuticle oil and a handwritten "thank you" card.
Emily paid, swift, practiced.
Zola caught the number.
Her breath hitched. That was a week of meals. Maybe more.
She didn't speak. There was nothing to say without revealing the scale between them.
Emily turned to her with a small, lazy smile.
"Don't look at the price. Look at your hands."
Zola lowered her gaze. Soft. Glossed. Quietly beautiful.
Unfamiliar. And yet, a faint, startling sense of the future. She exhaled—slow, careful. And for the first time, she allowed herself to admire her hands.
Zola survived the final weeks of term on caffeine and sheer will. Outside the library, leaves had already cycled through several shades, green to amber, amber to brittle brown, before the trees finally surrendered to winter.
The morning fog clung to the windows like breath held against glass. Inside, students occupied every corner: heads down, shoulders hunched, existing somewhere between ambition and collapse.
By midnight, the lights were still on. Someone slept folded over their laptop. Someone else wrote furiously, mouthing sentences in silence. Someone cried quietly behind a sleeve.
Zola didn't cry. She simply felt time like a horse she couldn't rein in, running, dragging her with it, indifferent to whether she could keep up.
Then, exam day.
When the final bell rang, it didn't sound triumphant. It sounded tired. Relieved.
Students spilt out into the hall like an elastic finally allowed to loosen. Someone cheered. Someone swore. Someone sank to the floor laughing, half-delirious. Zola only packed her pens, slow, methodical, and slipped everything into her bag. Her hands felt unnervingly light, as if they expected to still be holding something heavy.
Back in the residence common room, the atmosphere had shifted. No more anxious silence. Instead, muted laughter, the kind people allow themselves after surviving something. A cluster of girls sat around the sofa, messy buns, pyjama pants, under-eye circles, and the unmistakable high of being free.
The moment Zola walked in, someone lifted their head.
"Zola! Finished?"
She nodded.
Before she could sit, the conversation resumed as if paused mid-sentence:
The ball.
The word floated in the air like icing sugar, soft, sweet, dangerous.
Someone thrust a phone forward: "Is this dress too sparkly? Winter ball means sparkle, right?"
Another girl groaned into a pillow: "Heels are torture. But flats feel… tragic."
Someone practised politely declining a dance request in English, stuttering and laughing at herself.
Zola listened in silence—but her mind drifted.
To Emily. To champagne glasses and soft lighting. To the white heart in an Instagram story.
"Emily is definitely going to look amazing," someone said casually.
A small pause.
Then laughter, fond, envious, surrendered.
Zola said nothing. She wrapped her fingers around a mug of tea and pretended not to hear.
Except she had heard. Every word, every implication.
Later, when the room quieted under the warm lamp glow, someone asked: "Zola, what will you wear?"
Zola froze. Her mind went blank, too blank. "I… haven't decided yet."
The girls exchanged a look she recognised but couldn't quite translate: sympathy, curiosity, warning.
"You should hurry," one of them said gently. "Girls like Emily don't choose things last minute."
Another girl chimed in, almost earnestly, "It's our first ball, our debut. And that's… quite important, you know." She traded a glance with the girl beside her, and both of them burst into soft, excited laughter.
Zola tried to smile. "I know."
But later, standing alone in her room, she stared at her closet—plain sweaters, jeans, a few blouses, and a black dress she'd already worn twice.
A strange shame stirred in her, not because the clothes were simple, but because they looked like they belonged to someone without expectation. Someone who didn't believe a luminous future required preparation.
She didn't know how long she stood there.
Until her phone lit up.
Emily: You done with exams?
Zola typed back: Yes.
Three seconds. Good. Come to mine tomorrow.
Another message followed: For the ball.
No question marks. No tentative phrasing.
A statement. A decision has already been made.
Zola read the words twice. Her fingertips felt cool against the screen.
A quiet smile pulled at her mouth.
Emily was less a fairy godmother than a force, steady, intentional, impossible to refuse.
The next afternoon, the sky was unseasonably clear, thin clouds stretched like silk, and the air was sharp with winter light.
Zola followed the address Emily sent. She knew the neighbourhood: high-end boutiques, quiet cafés, galleries, places she usually passed quickly, as if lingering might expose her as an outsider.
Today, she walked more slowly.
The building had a security entrance. Black glass, discreet keypad.
Zola pressed the bell. A soft tone followed.
"Come up," Emily's voice drifted through the speaker. Calm. Warm. Certain.
The elevator interior was lined with mirrors.
Zola caught her reflection, grey coat, hair wind-stirred, eyes still holding exhaustion.
She felt, absurdly, like someone stepping into a story that wasn't written for her.
The door opened.
Warm light spilt into the hallway.
Emily stood there.
Loose cream knit, hair casually pinned up, face bare yet elegant, like someone who never needed effort to be striking.
"Come in," she said, stepping aside.
Zola entered a space that felt curated without trying, with wood floors, soft fragrance of vanilla layered with sandalwood, fresh flowers by the window, and a cashmere throw casually draped over a chair.
Nothing loud. Nothing performative. Everything intentional.
"You look exhausted," Emily said.
Zola huffed a small laugh. "Finals."
Emily poured a glass of water and handed it to her.
"Tonight won't be exhausting," she murmured. "I promise."
It sounded less like reassurance and more like foreshadowing.
Outside the bedroom, a row of gowns hung neatly, silks, velvets, subtle sequins.
Not costume statements.
Zola stared, uncertain whether to touch.
"Choose one you like," Emily said.
Zola shook her head. "I… don't know what I like."
Emily smiled as if she expected that answer.
"Then I'll choose."
She reached for a dress, deep green, satin, understated but luminous, like the colour of midnight moss after rain.
"Try this."
Inside the dressing room, Zola changed, fabric whispering against skin.
For a moment, she couldn't lift her head.
When she finally stepped out, Emily looked at her, first with silence, then with recognition.
"That's the one."
Zola turned toward the mirror.
Her breath caught.
The reflection wasn't unfamiliar, yet it was a version of herself she had never been allowed to meet.
The dress shaped her shoulders, defined her waist, softened the line of her neck. Even her posture seemed altered, longer, certain.
Emily stepped behind her, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. Their reflections aligned, a quiet, nearly intimate symmetry.
"See?" she murmured. "You never needed to change. You just needed the right context."
Zola's fingers trembled barely noticeable, yet impossible to hide from someone like Emily.
Emily brushed a strand of hair behind Zola's ear, gentle, precise, without hurry.
Then she spoke with the softness of someone delivering a command:
"Tonight, let them see you."
Zola's breath stalled, not from fear.From recognition.
Tonight, she wouldn't be just another face in the room.
She would be someone to watch.
A necklace followed thin, delicate, almost invisible until the light found it.
"Perfect," Emily said, stepping back.
Zola stood still, not afraid of ruining the dress, but afraid the version of herself in the mirror might dissipate.
But she remained.
Steady. Elegant.
Emily poured champagne into two long-stemmed glasses.
"To tonight," she said.
Zola lifted her hand steadily this time.
The ballroom was brighter than she expected.
Chandeliers glowed low, casting warm light over velvet, silk, polished shoes, and champagne flutes. Music floated classical with a hint of indulgence, slow enough to feel intimate.
From the moment she entered, eyes found her, not staring, but noticing.
Emily walked beside her like a quiet constellation. People greeted her, leaned in, smiled, admired.
And for the first time, Zola wasn't introduced as nobody.
She was introduced. "This is Zola."
A blonde boy approached first pale eyes, sharp jaw, posture like a page cut from etiquette training.
He bowed slightly.
"May I?"
She nodded—before she even thought to speak.
They danced slow steps, guided turns, small circles of movement. His hand steady, hers learning.
"First ball?" he asked with a knowing smile.
Zola nodded.
He shook his head lightly.
"Impossible. You look like you belong."
She didn't answer.
The compliment didn't feel like flattery. It felt like a mirror someone finally wiped clean.
When the music ended, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers, soft, practised, effortless.
"Perhaps we can dance again later?"
Zola nodded, because suddenly, that felt inevitable.
Before she caught her breath, another partner approached, dark eyes, easy confidence, rhythm in his step.
"No partner yet?"
She shook her head.
"Good. Then I'm lucky."
His dance was different, lighter, flirtation disguised as choreography. He guided her with quiet assurance, laughter ghosting at the corners of his mouth.
When the music faded, he didn't kiss her hand.
He stepped closer, just enough.
"I'd like to know your name beyond tonight," he said softly.
Then, lifting his phone: "Instagram?"
She typed. A notification appeared.
Followed you.
She stood at the edge of the crowd, breath still uneven.
Emily approached and handed her another glass of champagne.
"How was it?" she asked.
Zola looked, not at Emily, but at the room: at the lights, at the music,
at the glances that sought her, not by accident, but by intention.
Finally, she answered: "…Different."
Emily smiled, unsurprised. "Good."
She lifted her glass, light clinking crystal. "Get used to it."