Fight or Fall

01

Whoever said life is so endlessly beautiful, couldn't be more wrong.

The campus was crawling with people, full of life—students laughing, calling out to friends, backpacks slung over shoulders as they rushed between classes. But I moved through the crowd like a ghost, my head down, eyes locked on the cracked pavement beneath my feet. The noise felt distant, like I was watching it all from the other side of a glass wall. Every burst of laughter, every echo of carefree chatter sent a twinge through my shoulders, but I kept my pace steady.

I tugged the sleeves of my sweater lower, my fingers curling into the frayed fabric. No one saw me. That was the plan. Fitting in wasn't about being noticed—it was about disappearing. Here, on campus, I wasn't the girl who served drinks at a fight club. I wasn't the girl who flinched at the slam of a door. Here, I was just another face in the crowd.

For now, that was enough.

I wove through the sea of students, focusing on avoiding eye contact. The buildings loomed ahead, casting long shadows as the afternoon sun sank lower. I was nearly at the lecture hall when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Boss: You're on tonight. Same shift. Don't be late.

I stared at the message for a second, my fingers tightening around the phone. It was like the two halves of my life were constantly brushing against each other, fragile threads pulling tighter, threatening to unravel everything. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and picked up my pace, heading for the lecture hall.

Class was my safe space—or at least that's what I told myself. Here, surrounded by students who had no idea who I was, I could pretend. I could pretend that I wasn't the girl who grew up with bruises I didn't deserve, the girl who spent too many nights serving drinks to men who barely noticed anything besides my body.

I found my usual seat in the back, far from the professor and the eager students up front. Pulling out my notebook, I let my hand move on autopilot, jotting down notes as the professor's voice faded into the background. My mind drifted to the inevitable—another night at the underground, another night of bloodied knuckles and deafening chaos that made me feel so small.

Then it happened—the moment I always dreaded.

"Lyra Matthews?"

My head snapped up. The professor was looking directly at me, eyebrows raised, that familiar knowing smile on his face. I blinked, my body stiffening as I realized I'd completely zoned out. Around me, students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Some turned to face me.

"Right," the professor continued, clearly used to blank stares by now. "You're paired with Ryan Cole for the semester project. You two will be working together on the topic of postmodern societal structures. I suggest you both start today—it's a large project, and the deadline will come quicker than you think."

My stomach dropped. Ryan Cole?

​​I knew who he was—everyone did. Ryan had that reputation, the kind of presence that made people take notice. He was the guy who didn't care about anyone, with sharp eyes and a colder smile. Somehow, he was always at the center of attention, no matter how much he pretended not to care. A second-year student who seemed to breeze through classes with a kind of effortless charm that was more infuriating than impressive.

I could already feel the eyes of the other students shifting toward me, whispers brushing against my ears, but I stayed frozen. I didn't need this kind of attention. I didn't want it.

My throat tightened, and for a split second, I thought about asking the professor for a different partner. But before I could even find the courage to speak, I felt someone drop into the seat next to me. A cool voice cut through the air like a razor against skin.

"So, you're the lucky one."

I glanced up, and there he was. Ryan Cole. Sharp angles, dark eyes, leaning back in the chair with that smirk I'd seen too many times. His presence filled the space like a storm, his gaze settling on me like I was a puzzle he had no interest in solving. 

"Looks like we're stuck together," he said, voice indifferent, almost annoyed. "Let's get this over with."

I tensed at his words, feeling the chill of his attitude sink in. He wasn't even trying to hide how little he cared about working with me. But there was something darker beneath that indifference, something heavy.

He wasn't just cold. He was buried under something."Fine," I muttered, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Let's just get through it."

We exchanged contact info quickly, his fingers barely touching his phone as he typed in my number. I did the same, feeling the weight of this partnership settle over me like a stone. This project meant spending hours together, working with someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with me. But despite the way he brushed me off, I couldn't shake the feeling that Ryan Cole was more than just a bad attitude.

There was something else. Something I knew too well.

If I wasn't careful, I might end up too close to it.