~🌺 Chapter eight 🌺~
Harmattan settles over campus almost overnight.
One week, dry leaves still crunch underfoot in the afternoon sun. The air is warm, and students linger outside after lectures, talking and laughing in small groups. Then suddenly the mornings change. A pale haze hangs in the sky, and a thin layer of dust settles quietly on windowsills and parked cars. The air turns dry and cool, especially at dawn.
Some people love this time of year.
The heat finally eases, and the early mornings feel calm and gentle. Walking across campus before lectures, the cool breeze brushing against the skin can feel refreshing. The soft, misty look of the sky gives everything a quiet, almost peaceful mood
The dryness gets into everything, dry lips, dry throat, itchy skin.
Reaching afternoon the dust is everywhere, clinging to shoes and clothes. No matter how many times the windows are cleaned, another thin coat appears the next day.
The sudden change feels a little unsettling.
Much like everything else lately.
The research project keeps expanding. Professor Harrington manages to secure additional funding, which should be good news but it also brings more work, more attention, and unfortunately more time working with Rowan.
These days, she seems impossible to avoid.
She isn't openly aggressive about it. She's just… always there. Offering suggestions on my drafts ,always presented as helpful improvements. Volunteering for the tasks that attract the most attention. Whenever outside researchers contact the team, she somehow ends up being the one replying first.
Professor Harrington notices it,so
during one of our private meetings, he observed me for a moment before speaking.
"You're letting her take the lead too often."
I hesitate. "How do I push back without turning it into a conflict?"
"You don't avoid conflict," he says calmly. "You manage it, there's always an appropriate way to handle it without conflict. That's the difference."
He's right.Still, understanding that in theory and actually doing it are two very different things altogether.
A few days later, an opportunity appears.
We're scheduled to meet with a visiting researcher from another university ,someone interested in joining the project as a partner. Rowan and I are both there, along with Professor Harrington.
Rowan takes the lead the moment we sit down. She runs through our progress with that calm, finished tone she uses when she wants something to sound inevitable. The visitor nods along, impressed.
Then he looks at me.
"And what's your perspective on the implementation challenges?"
I take a second. Not to make a point but just to choose the right one.
"The hardest part isn't the method," I say. "It's what happens when the results don't flatter the institution. You can design a clean framework, but if the system can't admit where it fails, the work doesn't go anywhere."
He leans forward. "Can you elaborate?"
So I do. I bring up the cases where policy looked strong on paper, then collapsed under real incentives. I point out the pattern Rowan skipped past ,the quiet refusal to change, even when the evidence is clear.
When I finish, the visitor keeps asking follow-up questions. Mostly to me now. Rowan answers when she can, but she's no longer guiding the whole thing.
After he leaves, Professor Harrington catches me near the door.
"That was well done," he says.
"I just answered his question."
"You answered it like you've actually been paying attention," he replies. "And you didn't turn it into a contest."
The praise lands heavier than I expect. Not because I doubt my work. Because I can feel what it did to the room.
On the walk back, I keep thinking about it.
Is this what I'm doing now learning how to take up space without looking like I am?
That evening, Maya and I eat dinner together. We've been doing that often, and neither of us has bothered to label it.
She studies me for a moment. "You seem… better lately."
"Better?"
"Less like you're waiting for something bad to happen."
I push my food around my plate. "Maybe I'm just getting used to everything."
"Or maybe you're finally settling in," she says.
I don't answer. I don't need to. The words sit there anyway.
Later that week, I'm in the library when a first-year approaches my table. She's nervous in a careful way shoulders tight, voice practiced.
"Are you Amara Sinclair?"
"Yes."
"I heard you're on the ethics research project. I'm really interested in that area. Would you mind if I asked you some questions sometime?"
It throws me for a second. Not the questions ,the fact that she chose me.
"Sure," I say. "If you have time now, we can talk."
We find a corner between two shelves. She asks what the work actually looks like, what skills matter, what people get wrong at the start. I answer as plainly as I can. I don't try to sound impressive. I try to be honest.
By the end, she looks calmer. Like she's been given a map instead of a warning.
"Thank you," she says. "This really helps."
"Anytime."
When she leaves, I sit there longer than I meant to.
It's the first time someone has come to me for guidance. Not Professor Harrington. Not Rowan. Me.
It's small, but it stays with me.
The next day, I mention it to Harrington.
He doesn't look surprised. "People talk to the person who makes it easy to ask questions."
"So… not Rowan."
He gives a brief, noncommittal shrug. "Rowan is good at being impressive. You're good at being clear."
"I'm not trying to be anything."
"I know," he says. And he goes back to his work, like that's the end of it.
Around then, Rowan changes.
At first it's small things. Shorter replies. A cooler tone. She "forgets" to include me on an email thread and blames the rush. It happens again a week later.
Harrington says it one afternoon, almost casually: "She's feeling threatened."
"By what?"
"By you not needing the spotlight," he says. "She manages perception. You don't. That contrast makes people uneasy."
"What should I do?"
"Don't react," he says. "Just keep your work clean."
I try. But Rowan's helpfulness starts coming with teeth.
In meetings, she repeats my ideas back with softer language, like she's translating them into something safer. She offers to "polish" my sections before submission. She suggests, in that careful tone that sounds like concern, that I might do better with more oversight.
It's subtle enough that calling it out would make me look paranoid.
And that's the point.
One afternoon, after a meeting that leaves me tense and tired, Maya asks how it went. I answer too sharply, and I regret it immediately.
"Sorry," I say. "That wasn't fair."
Maya doesn't push. "What's going on?"
So I tell her briefly, because even describing it makes me feel ridiculous.
She listens without interrupting. When I'm done, she says, "She's trying to make you doubt yourself."
"Why?"
"Because you don't perform," Maya says. "You just do the work. And people notice anyway."
"That's not"
"It is," she cuts in, gentler now. "You're not playing for approval, and she is. That difference makes her nervous."
I stare at my hands for a second.
"So what do I do?"
Maya shrugs. "Don't fight her for attention. Just don't give her your footing."
That night, I write one line in my journal:
If I argue with her, I make it bigger. If I stay steady, I let it pass.
Winter settles in. Deadlines stack up. Campus feels like it's running on caffeine and thin patience.
And slowly, more people start coming to me.
A junior student asking how to get involved in research. A peer asking me to read a draft. A faculty member stopping me after a talk to ask what I thought—and waiting for the answer.
I don't go looking for influence.
It finds me anyway, in small, ordinary ways.
During one of our meetings, Harrington says, "You're building a reputation."
"For what?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Reliability. People know what they'll get from you."
"Is that good?"
"It's useful," he says. "Especially here."
I think about Rowan—how easy she is to admire from a distance. How hard she is to stand next to up close.
The semester tightens toward the end: final papers, final presentations, final everything. The campus gets louder, then quieter, like everyone is running out of space to panic.
Our project ends with a departmental presentation. Bigger room. More faculty. More stakes.
Harrington assigns roles. I cover the analytical framework. Rowan presents the case applications.
We prep separately. When we meet, it's strictly necessary conversation, nothing extra. The tension sits between us like a third person.
The day before the presentation, Harrington calls me into his office.
"I want you ready tomorrow," he says.
"For what?"
"Rowan's going to frame this like it's hers," he says. "Not in a way you can quote. In a way you'll feel."
My stomach tightens. "So what do I do?"
"Be specific," he says. "When it's your work, say it's your work. Once. Calmly."
It sounds easy.
It isn't.
But the next day, in front of the department, I do it.
When Rowan refers to my framework as "preliminary," I correct her without raising my voice.
"It's not preliminary," I say. "It came out of analysis across fifteen case studies."
Later, when she suggests changes to my methodology in the middle of the presentation, I don't argue. I just hold the line.
"I hear you," I say. "But this approach matches what we set out to measure."
No edge. No performance. Just a clean sentence.
By the end, nobody is confused about who built what.
Afterward, several faculty members come straight to me with questions. A few offer compliments that feel measured and real. Rowan stands nearby with a tight smile, like she's holding it in place.
Across the room, Harrington catches my eye and gives one small nod.
That evening, I walk into our room and Maya throws her arms around me.
"You did it," she says.
"How do you even know?"
"I have sources," she says, grinning. Then she steps back and looks at me. "Also you look lighter."
I exhale, almost laugh. "Do I?"
"Yeah," she says. "Like you finally believe yourself."
Later, I write one last thing before the semester ends:
Maybe leadership isn't winning. Maybe it's refusing to get pulled off center.
And for the first time in months ,maybe longer and I honestly feel something close to peace.