Global Studies

The Past is Not Dead

Amara sat at her desk, the soft glow of her laptop casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the campus had grown quiet, the distant hum of life slowing as students drifted to bed, but Amara was wide awake. The project deadline loomed, but her focus was no longer just about grades or making the presentation great—it was about rebuilding a bridge she had unintentionally burned.

She leaned forward, staring at the screen, scrolling through articles, news reports, and interviews, trying to absorb every story she could find about migrants from around the world. She had already covered Venezuelan refugees seeking asylum in Brazil, but now she added stories from Syrian families fleeing war, Rohingya refugees escaping persecution, and African migrants braving treacherous seas for a better life in Europe. Each narrative felt like a piece of a larger puzzle she was trying to put together, a way to show Alexei that she understood the depth of his pain, even if she couldn't fully grasp it.

She clicked on a video interview of a Syrian father, his voice shaking as he described the night his family fled their village. His words hit her hard, reminding her of the stories Alexei had shared about his family. She paused the video, leaning back in her chair, her mind racing. She wanted this project to mean something, to go beyond facts and figures. It had to show that she cared—about the stories, about the people behind them, and most importantly, about Alexei.

Amara rubbed her eyes, exhaustion creeping in, but she refused to stop. She added an interactive map to the presentation, one that traced the paths of different migrant groups from all over the world. She incorporated powerful visuals—images of families, children, and homes left behind, with quotes from the migrants themselves. It wasn't just an academic exercise anymore. This was her silent apology, her way of saying what she couldn't in words.

"If I can just make him see that I understand," she whispered to herself, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Maybe he'll realize I'm sorry."

She worked deep into the night, the clicking of her keyboard the only sound in the room. Every detail felt important, every story a chance to rebuild the trust she had lost. Amara hoped that when Alexei saw the effort she was putting in, he would know she wasn't just doing it for the grade—she was doing it for them, for their fractured friendship.

As she finished editing another section of the presentation, she paused, staring at a photo of a Ukrainian family huddled together in a crowded shelter. It reminded her of what Alexei had told her about his cousins, about how they had gone from celebrating family gatherings to hiding from bombs. She took a deep breath, feeling a familiar knot tighten in her chest. She hadn't meant to betray him, but she knew now that her intentions didn't matter as much as the impact.

"I'll make this right," she whispered to herself, determination flaring in her chest. "I'll show him I care."

With each passing hour, Amara became more engrossed in the project, fine-tuning the details, arranging the stories in a way that humanized the migrant experience without exploiting it. She wanted Alexei to see that she hadn't just moved on from what happened between them—that this was her way of saying she understood, even if she hadn't said the words directly. She hoped, in the quiet effort of her work, Alexei would see the gesture for what it was: a silent apology, a promise to do better.

While Amara immersed herself in the project, determined to repair her relationship with Alexei, he sat in his dorm, fixated on the glowing screen of his phone. His mind, like the endless stream of headlines, was in a constant state of anxiety. He had been refreshing news websites for hours, hoping against hope for a positive update from Kharkiv. The bombings in Ukraine had intensified, and each headline seemed worse than the last. His attempts to reach his relatives had been fruitless, and the silence gnawed at him, filling him with dread.