The sky above YLU was the color of old watercolor paper — washed out, a little tired, holding the memory of storms that hadn't fully arrived yet.
Soung Ka Byar stared at it through the dorm window, one hand resting on the glass, the other clutching her phone.
The Scarlet Thread post from last night still glared back at her whenever she unlocked the screen:
THE SCHOLARSHIP GIRL WHO JUMPED THE LINE
Fine Arts tutor list is out, and guess whose name is on it?
New girl, no legacy, no money, but somehow… highly recommended by Professor N.T. 🤔
Talent? Or something else brewing in the studio?
She had stopped reading after that.
Stopped scrolling.
Stopped breathing properly.
But she still hadn't stopped hearing it — the whispers it had planted in other people's mouths.
Her name, tangled with his.
Her achievement, tangled with doubt.
She pressed the power button and shut the screen off.
The room felt too small for her thoughts.
Her reflection in the window glass stared back: hair tied up loosely, uniform neat but creased, eyes lined with the faint shadows of a night spent half-awake.
"How can they make it sound dirty?" she whispered to herself. "I just… drew."
But this was YLU.
Drawing was never just drawing.
Being chosen was never just being chosen.
And proximity to the wrong people was never just coincidence.
She exhaled slowly, pulled herself away from the glass, and grabbed her bag.
If she stayed here any longer, the walls would start answering her back.
The campus at seven-forty-five was quieter than usual.
Clouds drifted low, swallowing some of the light. Students moved in small clusters instead of crowds, voices quieter, faces more serious. A few pairs of eyes followed her as she crossed the courtyard — not openly hostile, but sharp.
Curious.
Judging.
Waiting.
Every ping of someone's phone made her stomach twist.
It felt like the entire university was a beast made of screens and signal towers, and today, it had turned its head in her direction.
She walked faster.
Near the fountain, she saw a familiar figure sitting on the ledge, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, expression carved from stone.
Min Yatu.
Her steps faltered.
His hair was slightly messier than the day before, as if he hadn't bothered to style it. A few buttons of his shirt were undone, tie shoved carelessly into his pocket. He wasn't laughing with anyone today.
He was staring at his phone, thumb still, jaw tight.
He looked… angry.
Not the loud, explosive kind.
The quiet kind.
The dangerous kind.
She considered walking around the fountain to avoid him.
But before she could change course, his gaze lifted — like he'd felt her presence before he saw her.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, the courtyard, the rumors, the Scarlet Thread all vanished.
It was just the two of them.
Then reality rushed back in.
She looked away first.
He pushed himself up from the fountain.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
"Morning," he said, walking toward her.
His tone was neutral — too neutral.
"Morning," she replied, trying to sound casual, failing.
"You saw it?" he asked.
She didn't need to ask what he meant.
She nodded. "Yeah."
"You read the comments?"
"No."
"It's better that way."
She had, of course — but only the first few. That had been enough.
He watched her carefully.
"It's not going to stop," he said. "Not here."
"Comforting," she muttered.
"I'm not trying to comfort you."
She believed him.
"You should stop coming here alone in the mornings," he said suddenly.
She frowned.
"Why?"
"Because this is when they get brave," he said simply. "When there's less people."
She opened her mouth to tell him she didn't need protection. That she was fine. That she could handle herself.
But she remembered the loosened easel.
The way paint had splashed across her canvas.
The way they had laughed.
"Who's 'they'?" she asked instead.
He slipped his hands into his pockets.
"People who don't like seeing you on lists they think belong to them."
Klar.
Hsu Myat Thin.
Others whose names she didn't know yet.
She tried for a lighter tone.
"You're talking like you're not one of them."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't say I wasn't dangerous," he replied. "I said they are."
She didn't know how to respond to that.
He looked at her a moment longer, expression shifting into something harder to read.
"If they give you trouble today," he added, voice dropping slightly, "tell me."
"Why?"
"Because I'll handle it."
She shook her head.
"I don't want you to handle anything."
He gave a half-smirk, half-sigh.
"That's not how this place works, Ka Byar."
He didn't wait for an answer.
He walked past her, toward the main building, leaving her with his words lingering in the air like smoke.
The Fine Arts wing felt heavier than the day before.
She could feel the looks.
Not everyone stared.
Not everyone cared.
But enough people did.
A few second-year students paused their conversation when she walked by. One girl leaned into another and whispered something behind her hand. A boy snorted.
She kept her head straight and her steps even.
If she pretended not to notice, maybe it would hurt less.
She reached the studio door, hand hovering at the handle for a second longer than necessary.
You chose this, she reminded herself.
You chose to stay.
She pushed the door open.
Inside, the studio was already alive.
Students spread out, setting up easels. The tall windows threw grayish light across canvases. The air smelled of wet paint and graphite and the faint, metallic scent of anxiety.
Professor Naya Thone stood near the front, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed but precise.
He didn't look at her when she entered.
But she felt him notice.
She slipped into a corner space and began prepping her materials.
Her hands were clumsy.
Charcoal sticks rolled.
Paper slipped.
Her stool scraped noisily against the floor.
Someone chuckled in the row behind her.
"Careful, scholarship girl," a voice muttered. "Wouldn't want your easel to fall again."
That laugh.
Hsu Myat Thin.
Ka Byar didn't turn.
She taped her page to the board, focusing on the line of the paper, the pressure of her fingers.
"Everyone here?" Naya's voice cut through the noise.
"Yes, sir," came a few responses.
Klar arrived late, as if on purpose, the door clicking shut behind her.
"Lovely of you to join us, Klar," Naya said without looking at her.
"Sorry, sir," she replied, not sounding sorry at all.
He turned to the class.
"Today," he began, "we're going to stop pretending that Fine Arts is soft."
A few people shifted in their seats.
"Most of you came here thinking you would draw pretty things," he continued. "Faces. Flowers. Landscapes. Instagram commissions. You're wrong."
Someone in the back laughed nervously.
"This department," Naya said, voice calm but sharp, "is built to test how much truth you can endure—not just how much talent you have."
He moved toward the center.
"I'm going to assign you something simple. You'll hate it."
He pointed at the blank canvas propped against his own easel.
"Draw the moment you realized you were insignificant."
The room went still.
"What?" someone whispered.
"That's too dark," another muttered.
Naya ignored them.
"Everyone in this room has had that moment," he said. "Don't lie to yourselves. Don't draw metaphors. Don't draw symbols. Don't draw poetry."
He turned his head slowly, scanning their faces.
"Draw the scene. Plain. Raw. The one you spend most of your time trying not to think about."
A boy in the front—Aung Pyae, quiet, always in hoodies—raised a hand.
"Why?" he asked. "Why that?"
"Because your art is shallow," Naya answered. "Because I want to see what happens when you stop hiding behind aesthetics and touch something real."
Ka Byar felt her throat tighten.
The moment she felt insignificant?
Which one?
There were too many.
Scholarship interviews that turned into interrogations.
Teachers who said, "Students like you never last long."
Parents whispering about tuition money.
Standing in front of the YLU gate.
Reading her name on the Scarlet Thread post.
All of them.
Her fingers ached.
"Start," Naya said.
The room didn't move at first.
Then chairs scraped.
Easels adjusted.
Charcoal lifted.
Ka Byar stared at the paper.
Her mind offered a hundred moments, but one lodged itself deeper than the others.
A day in a cramped apartment.
Her mother standing in the doorway.
Her father's voice low and tired.
"We did all we could," he'd said.
"If you don't get the scholarship, that's it. We can't try again. School isn't a game for us, Ka Byar."
She remembered staring at her sketchbook on the table, feeling small enough to disappear into the pages.
Insignificant.
Replaceable.
She picked up the charcoal.
Her hand moved.
She drew the table first.
The cheap plastic cover with faded flower patterns. The chipped corner. The faint coffee stain. Details so ordinary they hurt.
Then the doorway.
Her mother's silhouette, one hand on the frame, the other on her hip.
Her face not fully drawn, only hinted — because back then, Ka Byar hadn't looked up properly. Her memory of that day was sound and weight, not facial expression.
Then the wall — plain, cracked, and too close.
She drew herself at the table. Small. Shoulders hunched. Cheeks hollowed by the pressure she didn't yet understand how to name.
Behind her, two shadows. Her parents. Larger. Heavier.
She began shading their shadows darker than the rest of the room, letting the contrast swallow most of her own figure.
Halfway through, her eyes burned.
She blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in front of them.
"Twenty more minutes," Naya said.
Time dissolved as she worked.
All the sounds of the studio blurred — the scratch of charcoal, the shifting of feet, the occasional cough.
At some point, someone's brush clattered to the floor.
"Shit," they whispered.
Hsu Myat Thin muttered something under her breath and snickered.
Ka Byar kept drawing.
By the time Naya said, "Stop," her vision was tired and her hand ached.
She let the charcoal drop to the tray.
The room smelled thicker now—like effort and fear and something raw.
Naya walked slowly between the easels, hands behind his back, studying.
He stopped at Aung Pyae's piece.
A schoolyard. A boy alone. Three taller figures laughing. One teacher in the background turning away.
"Good," Naya murmured.
He moved on.
At Klar's easel, he lingered.
Her drawing was technically perfect — lines clean, perspective sharp. A stage. A microphone. An empty auditorium.
"Safe," he said.
Her jaw clenched.
"I want emotion," he added. "Not a monologue poster."
She pressed her lips together and looked away.
He reached Hsu Myat Thin's work. A classroom. Red-inked paper on a desk. A girl's face buried in her arms.
His response was quieter there.
There was something truthful in Hsu's lines, somewhere beneath her cruelty.
He paused longest at Ka Byar.
She stiffened as he stepped up behind her.
She heard his breath more than she felt his presence.
He didn't speak for a long time.
She stared at the drawing and wondered if she'd overdone it. If it was too dramatic. Too obvious. Too messy.
Then:
"This," he said, almost under his breath, "is what I meant."
Her heart stuttered.
He raised his voice enough for others to hear.
"Look at this."
She wanted the floor to swallow her.
Students turned, some standing to get a better view.
Ka Byar's face burned.
Naya continued:
"The room is small. The space is tight. The shadows are large. The self is nearly swallowed. That," he tapped the darkened doorway, "is a feeling. It's not pretty. But it's real."
Hsu rolled her eyes slightly. Klar crossed her arms.
Someone muttered, "He's obsessed with her."
Naya ignored it.
"You were afraid," he said quietly enough that only she caught it. "Afraid you were not enough."
She swallowed.
"I…" she began, but the words stuck.
He stepped back.
"Class is over," he said abruptly. "Clean up. Those of you who did not finish—finish at home. Tomorrow we move on."
Chairs scraped. People exhaled.
The spell broke.
Ka Byar stayed seated, waiting for the room to thin before she stood up.
Soe approached quietly.
"I liked it," Soe whispered, nodding toward her drawing.
"You didn't see it properly," Ka Byar replied, voice flat.
"I didn't have to. I saw you."
That made it harder to breathe.
Soe squeezed her shoulder and walked out.
As Ka Byar finished wiping her hands, a voice spoke over her shoulder.
"Well, that was dramatic."
Klar.
Ka Byar turned slowly.
"What do you want?" she asked softly.
Klar smiled.
"To warn you."
"About what?"
"About Professor Naya," Klar said. "He likes broken things. He makes projects out of them."
Ka Byar frowned.
"That's not—"
"He did it last year too," Klar continued, picking at her perfectly painted nails. "Picked a favorite. Gave them extra sessions. Defended them. Then dropped them when they stopped being interesting."
Ka Byar's stomach knotted.
"Who?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Klar's smile grew.
"You'll meet her. Or what's left of her. She dropped out mid-semester. Couldn't handle the pressure. But hey, maybe you're stronger than her."
She tilted her head.
"I hope so. It'll be more entertaining to watch you fall."
Ka Byar fought the urge to flinch.
She wouldn't give Klar that satisfaction.
She lifted her chin instead.
"If you're trying to scare me, it's not working," she lied.
"Oh, I'm not trying to scare you," Klar replied sweetly. "I'm trying to see how long it takes before you stop pretending you're not scared."
Before Ka Byar could respond, someone else spoke.
"Klar."
Naya.
His tone was mild, but there was nothing soft in it.
Klar turned, lips curving into something polite.
"Yes, sir?"
"Studio rules," Naya said. "If you're finished, clean your station. Harassment is not on the syllabus."
She smiled wider.
"Of course, sir."
As she passed Ka Byar, she brushed against her shoulder just slightly.
Not enough to be called a push.
Enough to make a point.
Later at lunch, the world felt smaller.
The cafeteria buzzed with energy, but everywhere Ka Byar sat, eyes seemed to follow.
She picked a table in the far corner, tray of food untouched as she stared at the rice and soup as though they belonged to someone else.
Her appetite had vanished.
She pulled her phone out.
New Scarlet Thread notification.
She hesitated.
Then opened it.
"Inside the Fine Arts Studio – N.T's new favorite?"
If you were in class this morning, you saw it.
The emotional piece. The teacher's praise.
The little scholarship girl being used as an example again and again.
Is it talent?
Is it favoritism?
Or the beginning of another tragic N.T obsession arc? 😊
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Another screenshot was attached — someone had secretly snapped a photo from the back:
Naya standing behind her, looking at her drawing.
Her profile visible, shoulders tense.
His face angled toward her work.
Out of context, it looked closer than it really was.
Tragic N.T obsession arc.
She stared at those words until they blurred.
Someone sat across from her.
She looked up.
Min Yatu.
"You shouldn't read those," he said simply.
"I know," she replied.
"But you're reading them anyway."
She put her phone face down.
"Do you care this much about everyone?" she asked quietly. "Or just girls on rumors?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's the first sharp thing you've said to me."
"I'm tired," she said.
"Good," he replied. "You think clearer when you're tired. Less pretending."
She sighed.
"I don't know how to do this. Any of it."
"Well," he said, picking up a spoon and stealing a bite of her rice like it was his, "rule one: Fine Arts isn't soft. You already learned that today."
"I noticed," she muttered.
"Rule two," he added, chewing, "Naya Thone doesn't save people for free. He sees potential and pushes it until it breaks or becomes art."
"How do you know that?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"I pay attention."
To Naya.
To her.
To everything.
"Rule three," he said, "you should stay away from him."
Her eyes flickered.
"Why?"
"Because you're already falling apart," he said bluntly. "You don't need someone who will break you more, even if he calls it teaching."
An ugly laugh escaped her.
"And you won't?"
"No," he said. "I'm worse. I don't pretend my damage is a lesson."
She didn't know whether to be offended or strangely relieved by the honesty.
"You're dramatic," she said.
"You're in denial," he countered.
They stared at each other.
He broke the gaze first, leaning back in his seat.
"But," he added, "if you insist on going into his orbit, don't go in fragile."
"I don't know how to be anything else," she admitted.
His expression shifted. He studied her like he was memorizing something.
"Maybe that's what's interesting about you," he said softly.
Then he stood up, leaving her more confused than before.
That evening, the sky broke.
Rain hammered the windows, turning the campus into a blur of lights and shadows.
Ka Byar sat at her desk, sketchbook open, the assignment from Naya Thone lying in front of her.
Finish the drawing. Refine it. Bring it tomorrow.
She stared at it.
At the little version of herself.
At the doorway.
At the shadows.
The longer she looked, the more something inside her shifted.
She darkened the shadows further.
Redrew the eyes.
Expanded the room slightly just to make it shrink again.
When she finished, she wasn't sure if she'd drawn a memory or an accusation.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Soe.
"Are you okay?"
She hesitated, then replied.
"No. But I will be."
Another ping.
"Okay. I'll wait for the 'will be.' Don't disappear."
She smiled a little despite herself.
After midnight, the rain still hadn't stopped.
She turned off the lights and lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her mind wouldn't quiet.
Naya's words.
Min Yatu's warnings.
Klar's threats.
Scarlet Thread's poison.
They tangled together until they became a single thought:
This place is trying to make me into something I don't recognize.
She closed her eyes.
In the quiet, a single, dangerous counter-thought rose slowly:
Maybe I'll let it.
The idea scared her.
And thrilled her.
Because if Fine Arts wasn't soft,
maybe she didn't have to be either.
Morning came with the sharpness of a blade dipped in sunlight.
The storm had passed, but it left the air dense and heavy — the kind of air that made everything louder: footsteps, whispers, even the quiet beating of your own uncertainty.
Ka Byar stepped into the Fine Arts building with her sketchbook pressed tightly against her chest, as though it were armor.
Soe Hlaing May waited by the stairwell with two umbrellas folded neatly beside her.
"You came early again," Soe said gently.
"I didn't sleep well."
"I figured."
There was no judgment. Only understanding — warm, soft, the kind of softness that didn't make you feel weak.
Soe hesitated.
"You saw the new Scarlet Thread post?"
Ka Byar almost laughed.
"Which one? The one accusing me of sleeping my way into a tutor position, or the one asking if I'm Naya Thone's secret child bride?"
Soe winced.
"Both."
Ka Byar wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.
Soe stepped closer.
"Listen to me. People love stories more than truth. And right now… you're their favorite story."
"I didn't ask for that."
"No one does," Soe whispered.
Before Ka Byar could respond, footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Both girls turned.
Klar Za Min descended like royalty stepping onto a stage — slow, poised, cruelly beautiful.
Hsu Myat Thin trailed behind her with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Klar paused directly beside Ka Byar.
"Oh look," she said, tilting her head, "the campus celebrity."
Ka Byar stayed silent.
"You know," Klar continued softly, "people would stop talking about you if you acted… less pathetic."
Soe's eyes darkened.
"Stop," she said firmly. "You've said enough."
Klar smiled.
"No. I've barely started."
She leaned close to Ka Byar's ear, her perfume sweet and suffocating.
"Just a hint," she whispered. "Naya Thone isn't rescuing you. He's grooming you."
Ka Byar froze.
Soe grabbed Klar's wrist.
"Hey. Enough."
"Oh please," Klar scoffed, pulling away. "It's not like I'm lying. Everyone knows he has a type."
Before more could be said, a voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Za Min."
Klar's posture straightened instantly.
Professor Naya Thone stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, eyes colder than morning frost.
"I'd like a word," he said calmly.
Klar's confidence faltered.
She glanced at Ka Byar, then followed Naya wordlessly.
But as she passed, she muttered, "Lucky you. He still notices."
Soe exhaled shakily.
"Ignore her," she whispered.
Ka Byar nodded, but her pulse was uneven.
Lucky you.
She hated how those words lingered.
Hated how they felt like barbs tangled with truth.
Hated how her heart reacted.
The studio was dim when Ka Byar stepped in.
The early clouds filtered out most of the sunlight, casting long shadows across canvases.
Only a few students were inside:
Aung Pyae sketching quietly in the corner.
Two second-year girls painting over old canvases.
Soe flipping through reference books.
Ka Byar set her sketchbook on a table, fingers tapping nervously.
She still didn't know how to feel about Naya.
Admiration?
Fear?
Confusion?
A strange pull she couldn't name?
She didn't know.
But she sensed something dangerous forming between them — something she shouldn't touch, but couldn't avoid.
A few minutes later, the door opened softly.
Naya Thone stepped inside.
Silence followed him like a shadow.
He carried a stack of charcoal sets and a folder tucked under his arm. His gaze moved across the room — briefly, lightly — but the moment it reached Ka Byar,
it lingered.
Just a second.
Not enough to create a scandal.
But enough to set her pulse racing.
He didn't acknowledge her further.
He walked to the front, set the materials down, and addressed the class.
"Yesterday," he began, "we learned what you fear."
No one spoke.
"Today," he continued, "you will draw what you want."
Some students perked up immediately.
Desire was always easier than fear.
"That's not an invitation to draw fantasies," Naya said, already anticipating the misunderstanding. "You're not drawing lovers or money or fame."
He stepped closer to the nearest student.
"You're drawing the moment you realized you wanted something badly enough to hurt for it."
A ripple of discomfort spread across the studio.
Naya's assignments always cut too close to the bone.
Ka Byar swallowed hard.
She knew exactly what memory her hands would choose — the moment she opened the YLU acceptance email and felt something like fire bloom in her throat.
Not joy.
Not pride.
Hunger.
The need to escape.
To belong.
To become someone who mattered.
Naya walked to the supply cart.
"As before: no symbols. No metaphors. Draw the scene. The real one."
He paused beside her.
His voice lowered — not intimate, but intentional.
"And be honest this time."
Her eyes snapped to him.
This time?
She wanted to argue.
But she also knew he was right.
She hadn't drawn the whole truth yesterday.
Not the real scale of her insignificance.
Not the real weight of her father's words.
Naya walked away before she could respond.
But his gaze — that brief, sharp gaze — had cut deeper than any rumor.
Her hand trembled when she picked up the charcoal.
She drew the email notification first — the little red dot that had changed everything.
Then her old laptop.
Then her reflection in the monitor screen — eyes wide, jaw trembling.
Then her room.
The cracked wall.
The broken fan.
The stack of unpaid bills on the table.
She shaded her hands — shaking, gripping the mouse too hard.
She shaded the shadows beneath her eyes.
She drew desperation.
But something else started leaking into the lines.
Anger.
Why did she have to fight so hard?
Why did she always have to prove herself?
Why did people like Klar get everything handed to them?
The charcoal grew darker.
Harder.
More frantic.
She barely heard the door open.
Barely noticed Min Yatu step inside, late, expression unreadable.
He saw her drawing and frowned.
But he said nothing.
He took a seat directly behind her — too close for comfort.
He wanted to watch.
She didn't know why that made her drawing sharper.
At some point, her breathing quickened.
The lines became bold.
The shading deeper.
Her vision blurred at the edges.
She didn't realize someone had approached until a voice spoke behind her ear.
"Stop."
She froze.
Naya Thone stood beside her, gaze fixed on the drawing.
"It's too raw," he murmured.
She blinked quickly.
"I'm sorry— I'll lighten it—"
"No," Naya interrupted. "Keep the darkness. Just stop for a moment."
His voice was calm but firm — like he was trying to pull her back from something she didn't see.
"Your hand is shaking," he added quietly.
She glanced down.
Her fingers were trembling violently.
Min Yatu noticed too.
"You pushed her too far," he said from behind.
The tension crackled instantly.
Naya didn't turn.
"It's my class," he said.
"And she's human," Min Yatu shot back.
"Humans make their best work under pressure," Naya replied.
"Or they break," Min Yatu countered.
Naya finally looked over his shoulder.
"She won't break."
"You don't know that."
"I know potential when I see it."
Ka Byar stared between them, throat tight.
Two storms.
Different types.
Both pulling her.
Both seeing something in her she didn't understand.
Soe watched from across the room, her expression sinking.
She saw the rupture forming before it split.
Soe always saw things first.
When Naya dismissed the room, students rushed out with more energy than usual — as though they had been holding their breath the whole session.
Ka Byar stayed seated, holding her wrist.
Her hand still trembled.
Min Yatu crouched beside her.
"You okay?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Yes," she lied.
"You're terrible at lying."
She tried to laugh but couldn't.
He took her hand gently and massaged the base of her thumb.
"You strained it," he said softly.
"Too much pressure."
She swallowed.
His touch was warm.
Steady.
Dangerous.
"Min Yatu—" she began.
But he cut her off.
"You need to stop letting him get in your head."
"He's just teaching."
"He's pushing you over an edge."
"Maybe I need it," she said quietly.
He stared at her — absolutely stunned.
"Ka Byar," he whispered, "you don't have to bleed for art."
"Maybe I do," she murmured. "Maybe that's the only thing I'm good at."
Min Yatu's expression twisted — anger, hurt, something she couldn't name.
Before he could respond, someone else spoke.
"You should ice the hand."
Naya.
Min Yatu stood instantly, tension bristling.
Naya ignored him and focused only on Ka Byar.
"You strained your flexor tendon," he said. "Cold pack. Ten minutes."
She nodded numbly.
"I'll bring one," he added and walked off.
Min Yatu exhaled sharply through his teeth.
"You're letting him own you," he muttered.
"He doesn't—"
"Look at you," he said. "You can't even rest unless he tells you to."
"That's not true," she whispered.
But she wasn't certain.
Min Yatu leaned in slightly, voice low.
"You think he cares about you. He doesn't. He cares about being right."
"And what do you care about?" she asked.
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
His eyes darkened.
"You," he whispered.
Her breath caught.
"Even if you don't want me to."
When she finally left the studio, her hand wrapped in an ice pack Naya had wordlessly handed her, she walked into a hallway buzzing with whispers.
Students stepped aside as she passed — not out of respect, but fascination.
Phones were out.
Screens glowed.
Notifications pinged.
A girl in the stairwell was reading something aloud from her phone.
Ka Byar froze.
She recognized the format instantly.
Scarlet Thread.
Another update.
The girl read:
"BREAKING: Witnesses report a tension-filled confrontation in the Fine Arts studio involving Min Yatu, Professor N.T., and the tutor girl."
Love triangle?
Power play?
Emotional manipulation?
This story keeps getting better.
A photo was attached.
Not just any photo.
A picture of Naya holding Ka Byar's wrist, inspecting her hand.
Min Yatu standing behind them — jaw tight, expression furious.
The perfect triangle.
Ka Byar's stomach dropped.
The girl reading it gasped.
"Oh my god," she said. "Look at Min Yatu's face."
Another student whispered, "Is she dating both of them?"
Someone else:
"She's either very lucky or very stupid."
Ka Byar felt like she was drowning in a hallway full of air.
Soe rushed to her side.
"We should go," Soe whispered urgently. "Come on."
Ka Byar let herself be pulled away.
But as she reached the exit, she heard someone whisper—
"She's the scandal of the semester."
And someone else answered:
"No… she's just the beginning."
The bathroom mirror was too bright.
Ka Byar gripped the porcelain sink with both hands, knuckles pale, heart racing like it was late for something.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off the pale tiles, making everything look harsher — her face, her eyes, the tiny tremor in her mouth when she tried to steady her breathing.
She'd stared at that photo.
The one Scarlet Thread had posted of Naya holding her wrist.
Her mind kept returning to it like a tongue to a cut:
His hand around her wrist.
Min Yatu in the background, tense.
Her own expression halfway between pain and… something she didn't want to name.
She splashed cold water on her face.
"Get it together," she whispered to herself.
The door opened.
A pair of girls walked in, too absorbed in their phones to notice her at first.
"I swear, that girl is everywhere now," one of them said.
"Do you think it's real?" the other whispered. "Her and Professor Naya?"
"Well, Min Yatu definitely cares," the first said. "Look at his face in that photo—he looks ready to kill someone."
"Can you blame him? I'd be angry too if the professor I like was touching another girl like that."
They laughed.
Ka Byar's stomach twisted.
The second girl glanced up, finally seeing her.
Their eyes met.
The girl's laughter died instantly.
"Oh," she muttered, elbowing her friend.
They fell into a fidgety silence, mouths full of all the words they no longer dared to say out loud in front of her.
Ka Byar dried her face with a rough paper towel, shoulders rigid.
She didn't say anything.
Didn't look angry.
Didn't cry.
She just walked past them and out the door.
But something new had settled inside her.
Not sadness.
Not fear.
Something sharper.
Like the moment a bruise stops hurting and starts turning yellow.
The Dean's office door was half open when Naya knocked.
"Come in," Daw May Khin called.
Naya stepped inside, folder in hand.
Her office was clean, clinical — books arranged in exact order, certificates framed, a pot of orchids that somehow refused to bloom.
"There's a situation in Fine Arts," she said without preamble.
"There are many situations in Fine Arts," Naya replied calmly. "You'll have to be specific."
She slid a printed page across the desk.
He recognized the Scarlet Thread layout instantly.
He'd seen it on a dozen students' screens that day.
He just hadn't opened it himself.
Until now.
His eyes skimmed the text.
The photo.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Of course," he murmured.
"Is it true?" May Khin asked, watching him over the rim of her glasses. "I don't care about gossip. I care about risk."
"No," he said simply.
"You're not… involved with her?"
"No."
"Are you sure the students see it that way?" she asked pointedly.
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
"They see what they want to see," he replied. "They always have."
She sighed.
"We can't have another situation like last year," she said. "Your teaching style is effective but…"
"Controversial," he supplied.
"Excessive," she corrected. "You push them too hard."
"They break because they're weak," he said. "Or they sharpen. That is how it works."
"Not all of them sharpen," she said quietly. "Some shatter."
He thought of a name he hadn't spoken in months.
A dropout.
A girl who vanished mid-semester and never came back to collect her portfolio.
He pushed the memory away.
"So what do you suggest?" he asked.
"Professional distance," she said. "No extra sessions. No early-morning studio time alone. No touching. Even for injuries. It looks bad."
"She strained her hand," he said, a slight edge in his tone. "I was helping with a medical issue, not violating policy."
"The policy doesn't care about context," she replied. "It cares about perception. And right now, perception says—"
"I know what it says," he cut in.
Silence stretched.
She sighed again, softer this time.
"Look, Naya," she said. "You're one of the best things about this department. But you're also one of the most dangerous. Emotionally, at least."
He said nothing.
"You have a way of seeing students too deeply," she continued. "They mistake it for something else. Attachment. Affection. Love. Whatever word makes them feel chosen."
His eyes darkened.
"I don't choose them," he said. "I choose their work."
"Students rarely separate the two," she answered.
He looked at the paper again—the frozen moment of him and Ka Byar.
He saw what they saw.
How close he stood.
How intense his attention looked.
How fragile she appeared next to him.
He folded the print once, twice, then set it down.
"I'll handle it," he said.
"How?" she asked.
He didn't respond.
Because he didn't know yet.
Only that he would.
Out in the courtyard, Klar Za Min was in her element.
Her phone screen lit her face as she scrolled through reactions under the Scarlet Thread post.
"Look at this," she told Hsu Myat Thin, grinning. "They're obsessed."
Hsu laughed.
"This is better than last semester," she said. "I didn't think anything could top the Architecture cheating scandal, but this…"
"Falling for a professor?" Klar mused. "It's practically classic."
"It's not confirmed," Hsu said. "They might just be dramatic."
"Oh, they're dramatic," Klar said. "But that doesn't make it false."
Hsu looked amused.
"Are you jealous?" she teased. "Didn't you used to… like Naya?"
Klar's smile thinned.
"Like?" she repeated. "He was… an experiment."
"Didn't work?"
She shrugged.
"He got bored. I got bored. It was mutual."
That wasn't the whole truth.
Naya had shut her down.
Politely.
Coldly.
As a teacher.
As a critic.
As someone who refused to let her charm bend the rules.
Klar hadn't forgiven him for that.
Or for what came after.
"Maybe he just prefers a different personality now," Hsu said, gaze flicking toward the Fine Arts building.
Klar followed her eyes. Saw Ka Byar walking across the courtyard alone, hand still slightly bandaged.
Klar's smile sharpened.
"Well," she murmured, "we'll see how long that lasts."
Ka Byar wanted to disappear into the library.
It was one of the few places where everything felt muted — voices hushed, footsteps softened, eyes glued to books instead of screens.
She slipped between tall shelves, the smell of paper and dust wrapping around her like a blanket.
She picked a random art history book and pretended to read it.
She didn't.
Her thoughts kept looping.
You're Naya's favorite.
You're using him.
He's using you.
Min Yatu is in love with you.
You're ridiculous. You're nothing. You're too much.
She shut her eyes.
Someone slid into the seat across from her.
She opened them.
Naya Thone.
He had no right to look that calm in a place that felt like chaos in her head.
"You disappeared after class," he said.
"I went to exist somewhere with fewer eyes," she replied quietly.
"Did it help?"
"A little," she admitted.
He nodded once, as if that answer mattered.
"You saw it?" she asked, gesturing vaguely in the air — meaning the Scarlet Thread, the photo, the comments.
"Yes."
"And?"
"And it's noise," he said. "It will pass."
"It doesn't feel like noise," she whispered. "It feels like a verdict."
He studied her for a moment.
"Do you want to quit the tutor candidacy?" he asked.
The question hit like a slap.
"What?"
"Do you want out?" he repeated. "If this is too much, you can leave now. No shame. No explanation."
Her heart stumbled.
"I thought you wanted me there," she said.
"I do," he answered. "But I want you to choose it, not endure it."
She looked down at her hands.
"I don't want to be the center of gossip," she said. "I don't want people thinking I got here by… anything other than work."
"And yet," he said softly, "you are still here."
Her eyes lifted.
"You could have run," he continued. "You could have dropped my class. Avoided the studio. Hid in safe spaces. But you didn't."
"Maybe I'm stupid," she muttered.
"Maybe you're braver than you think."
She hated that his words made her chest feel warm.
"I can't stop them talking," he went on. "I can't stop them twisting. But I can control how I behave. So—"
He leaned back slightly.
"From now on, we keep a distance in public. No more early closed-door sessions. No more hovering. No more… scenes for them to capture."
It made sense. It was rational.
It also hurt more than she expected.
"Oh," she said, staring at the table. "Of course. I understand."
"Do you?" he asked quietly.
She forced a small smile.
"You're protecting your job."
"I'm protecting you," he corrected softly.
Her breath caught.
He didn't reach for her.
Didn't touch her.
But the air between them thickened anyway.
"And if," he added slowly, deliberately, "you need help—you will schedule it. During regular hours. With witnesses."
She nodded.
"Good," he murmured. "Then they can't say we're hiding anything."
But we are, a small voice whispered inside her.
We're hiding how much this matters.
He stood.
"For what it's worth," he said, looking down at her, "you handled the past few days better than most do in an entire semester."
"That's not saying much," she replied weakly.
"It's saying enough," he answered. "Don't let them convince you otherwise."
Then he left, leaving the faint smell of cologne and something sharper behind.
She stared at the space he'd just occupied.
The distance he wanted?
She understood it.
She accepted it.
She hated it.
Min Yatu saw them leave the library minutes apart.
First Naya.
Then Ka Byar.
He'd only walked by because he'd needed a distraction from his own thoughts — anything to drown out the echo of that Scarlet Thread photo in his mind.
He leaned against a pillar, watching her from afar as she stepped down the library stairs.
Her face was calmer now.
Not peaceful, exactly.
More like someone who'd made a decision and was learning to live with it.
He ground his teeth.
He knew Naya had gotten to her first.
Again.
He knew it was stupid to care.
He cared anyway.
The first true crack appeared that evening.
Not in her sketchbook.
Not in her grades.
In her patience.
Ka Byar walked into the dorm, exhausted, mind foggy, shoulders tight.
Two girls were whispering near the staircase.
"She probably likes the attention," one said.
"I mean, if a professor looked at me like that, I wouldn't complain."
"Min Yatu and Naya?" the other replied. "I heard she caused a fight in the studio."
Ka Byar snapped.
She stopped.
Turned.
"Say it to my face," she said.
The girls froze, eyes wide.
"I'm right here," Ka Byar continued, voice steady but shaking underneath. "If you're going to talk about me, don't do it like I'm a ghost."
"We—we didn't mean—" one stammered.
"You did," Ka Byar said. "You meant every word. So say it again. Loud this time."
Silence.
They stared at her — afraid, guilty, unsure.
She suddenly felt tired.
More tired than angry.
"Forget it," she muttered. "Just… find another topic. There's more to this university than me."
She walked away before they could respond.
In her room, she shut the door and slid down to the floor, back pressed against the wood.
She didn't cry.
She just sat there, hands pressed over her face, breathing slowly.
Fine Art isn't soft.
She knew that now.
What she didn't know was whether she still wanted to be soft at all.
That night, a new Scarlet Thread post went up.
"THE SCHOLARSHIP GIRL SPEAKS BACK"
Eyewitnesses report that the Fine Arts tutor candidate finally snapped at some girls in the dorm corridor tonight.
Calm anger.
No tears.
No breakdown.
Just a warning.
Maybe she's not as fragile as everyone assumed.
Maybe we made a monster.
Ka Byar read it in bed, phone lighting her face in the dark.
Maybe we made a monster.
She stared at that line until the words no longer looked like words.
A strange, quiet thought slipped into her mind.
If they've already decided what I am…
Then maybe I don't have to apologize for becoming it.
That thought scared her.
But it also gave her the first taste of something that almost felt like power.
The night dripped slowly into the corridors of YLU, like ink bleeding through paper — dark, heavy, inevitable.
Most of the building lights had dimmed, and the campus had quieted into a muted hush. Only a few scattered groups lingered, whispering before curfew. The air smelled faintly of rain and old stone walls that had seen too many secrets.
Ka Byar walked alone across the courtyard, her sketchbook tucked tightly under her arm. The weight of the day pressed against her chest, each breath a shallow attempt to outrun the suffocation of rumors.
Her footsteps echoed softly.
She kept her head down.
She shouldn't have walked alone at night.
She knew that now.
Too late.
"Going somewhere, scholarship girl?"
She froze.
Klar Za Min stood under the archway of the Fine Arts building, arms crossed, one leg casually pressed against the wall.
Her expression was something between amusement and cruelty.
Behind her, Hsu Myat Thin leaned against the handrail, twirling her phone in her hand, recording nothing yet — but ready.
Ka Byar's breath tightened.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Klar pushed off the wall and walked toward her — elegant, slow, predatory.
"Oh, nothing," she purred. "Just wanted to congratulate you."
"For what?"
"For becoming YLU's favorite scandal."
Ka Byar clenched her jaw.
"I didn't—"
"Didn't what?" Klar interrupted. "Didn't flirt your way into Professor Naya's good graces? Didn't cry your way into Min Yatu's protection?"
Ka Byar's heartbeat thudded painfully.
"You don't know anything about me."
Klar smiled.
"I know enough."
She circled her, like a panther testing prey.
"You act innocent, but you know exactly what you're doing. Men like being needed. Especially damaged ones. Especially powerful ones."
Ka Byar stiffened.
Klar's voice lowered.
"And Min Yatu… oh, he always did love a charity case."
"Stop," Ka Byar whispered.
Klar stepped closer.
"You want to be special so badly. You want to matter. But you don't. You're just a distraction — the latest new toy for bored men."
Ka Byar's hands shook.
Not with fear.
With something darker.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"Because," Klar said simply, "you're standing where I should be standing."
Ka Byar looked up.
That was the truth.
Not rumors.
Not scandals.
Not fantasies.
Jealousy.
Old, bitter, expensive jealousy.
Ka Byar felt something inside her shift.
A string inside her mind snapped quietly — not violently, not dramatically…
Just finally.
Her voice came out steady, too steady.
"You're afraid of me."
Klar blinked.
"What?"
"You're afraid," Ka Byar repeated. "That's why you're doing this."
Klar laughed sharply.
"Afraid? Of you? Don't be ridiculous—"
"You are," Ka Byar said softly. "You're afraid because you see it."
"See what?" Klar demanded.
Ka Byar lifted her head.
"That I could become better than you."
Klar's expression hardened instantly.
Hsu Myat Thin straightened, looking between them.
"You think you're better—?" Klar began.
"No," Ka Byar said, stepping closer. "Not yet."
Klar froze.
"But I will be."
The words hung in the air like a spark waiting for fire.
Klar's face twisted.
"You arrogant—"
"Enough."
A voice sliced through the moment.
Cold.
Controlled.
Sharp.
Professor Naya Thone stood at the top of the stairs, hands in his coat pockets, watching.
Klar stepped back instinctively.
Hsu Myat Thin's phone dropped slightly.
Naya descended the stairs slowly.
"Miss Za Min," he said. "Miss Hsu. I believe curfew applies to you as well."
Klar swallowed.
"Yes, sir."
"You should leave," he added.
Klar hesitated.
Her eyes flickered to Ka Byar — furious, shaken, defeated — and for the first time, uncertain.
"We're not done," Klar hissed softly toward Ka Byar.
Ka Byar didn't flinch.
"You already lost," she whispered back.
Klar's expression cracked.
She walked away quickly, Hsu trailing after her.
Silence fell.
Rainwater dripped from the overhang above them, hitting the stone with slow, rhythmic taps.
Naya stopped a few feet from Ka Byar.
"You shouldn't wander alone," he said.
"I'm not afraid," she replied.
"You should be."
"Why?"
"Because you're becoming visible," he said. "And visibility breeds enemies."
She took a shaky breath.
"You saw everything."
"I did."
"And?"
"And you handled it."
Her throat tightened.
"Barely."
"You didn't cry."
"I wanted to."
"But you didn't."
His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.
"That matters."
She looked down at her hands.
"They hate me."
"They hate what they think you represent," he corrected. "A threat. A rival. A possibility they didn't approve."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," Naya said honestly. "It's supposed to make you aware."
Her breath hitched.
"You're changing," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Does it scare you?"
"Yes."
"Does it stop you?"
She looked up.
"No."
Naya studied her like she was a painting he hadn't decided whether to critique or keep.
Then he reached out slowly — not touching her, just lifting her chin with a single finger in the air, a breath's distance away.
Not touching.
Almost.
His voice lowered.
"Good."
She swallowed.
"It's dangerous," she whispered. "This… everything."
"It is," he agreed.
She didn't step back.
Neither did he.
The air between them was fragile, vibrating, wrong, addicting.
He let his hand drop.
"Go back to the dorm," he said. "You've had enough for one day."
Ka Byar exhaled shakily.
But she didn't turn yet.
"Sir," she said quietly, "will this get worse?"
His answer came without hesitation.
"Yes."
"Will I survive it?"
This time, he paused.
"You will," he said finally. "If you stop trying to be small."
Her heartbeat tripped.
She nodded.
Then she walked past him, steps steady, chin lifted.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
She knew he watched her go.
The dorm corridor hummed with whispers as she passed.
But the whispers didn't cut the same way anymore.
They slid off her skin like raindrops.
Inside her room, she shut the door gently — not slamming, not shaking — and stood in the dark.
She looked at her reflection in the window glass.
Her eyes were steady.
Her shoulders straight.
Something inside her — something soft — had died a little today.
And something else had taken its place.
Not cruelty.
Not evil.
Not yet.
Just a new shape.
A girl who had stopped apologizing.
She sat at her desk.
Opened the sketchbook.
Took out a charcoal stick.
The next page was blank.
Waiting.
She began to draw.
Not fear.
Not insignificance.
Not even desire.
She drew herself.
But larger this time.
Sharper.
Less afraid.
Less breakable.
A girl shaped like someone who was learning her own edges.
A girl who had stepped into rumors and walked out with a spine made of iron instead of glass.
A girl who had looked Klar Za Min in the face and didn't look away.
A girl who had two storms watching her —
One jealous.
One dangerous.
And she realized, slowly, painfully, thrillingly:
Fine Art might not be soft.
But she didn't have to be either.
She darkened the lines around her own figure.
Filled them in.
Made her presence solid on the page.
By the time she stopped, her fingers were black with charcoal.
Her eyes were burning.
And her heart had changed shape.
Quietly.
Permanently.
Out on the balcony above, unseen, Min Yatu watched her window light flicker through the curtains.
He felt something he couldn't name.
A pull.
A warning.
A loss.
And somewhere else on campus, Naya Thone closed his office notebook and whispered—
"She won't stay soft for long."