Chapter 62: Sixty Two

I stared at my own name on the printed list outside the seminar room, my heart pounding against my ribcage like it was trying to burst right out of my chest. There it was. Willow Whitefield.  3rd on the list of student research pitches. Five minutes. Just five minutes to summarize what I wanted to do over the summer. My real work, that I cared about. What I had come to this university for.

I adjusted the collar of my shirt. It was Declan’s shirt, technically. Crisp white, borrowed from his closet when I spilled tea on mine this morning. It still smelled like him, faintly, which made everything worse. Whenever I smelled him, flashbacks of the things we did in his bed over the weekend would override all other thoughts in my head.

Inside, the faculty seminar room was already half full. A semicircle of chairs lined the space, some faculty leaning back and scrolling through their phones, others talking to one another. A projector glowed softly at the front. There was a small table for my notes, a bottle of water, and a blinking microphone.

And Declan.

He was seated directly in the front row, not hiding in the back like I secretly hoped he might. He looked calm, collected, unreadable. His eyes met mine for a brief second. Just one. But even that fleeting connection sent a bolt of nervous heat down my spine.

I took the mic. Cleared my throat.

“Good afternoon. My name is Willow Whitefield. I’ll be presenting my research proposal titled ‘Beyond Concrete: Memory, Displacement, and the Making of the Modern City.’”

Silence. I could practically hear the fluorescent lights above me flickering.

I started to speak. Slowly at first, outlining the basics, the field narratives, the in-situ development model, the conflicting narratives of progress and loss. “Displacement isn’t just the loss of land. It’s the fragmentation of memory, the quiet erasure of identity. These stories aren’t peripheral to the process of development, they are the truth.”

I paused for a breath, and my eyes darted toward Declan, despite myself.

He was watching me. His posture leaned slightly forward. And for a split second, pride , unmistakable, and radiant, flickered on his face before it quickly vanished behind the mask of professionalism again.

Applause. Short, polite.

Then, the dreaded words.  “Let’s open it up for questions.”

Dr. Luthra asked about triangulating my qualitative data. A professor from the public policy division asked if I’d considered comparative case studies. I answered both with as much composure as I could muster. I had prepared for this.

And then Mara raised her hand.

My heart almost fell out of my chest.

“Hi,” she said sweetly, turning just slightly toward the rest of the room like a performer setting her stage. “Your passion is obvious. But I’m struggling to see how your proposal distinguishes itself academically. You cite a lot of narrative accounts, but where is the rigorous methodological backbone? It sounds more like an op-ed than a research proposal.”

My breath hitched.

Every part of her tone was barbed wire, the implication that my work was emotional fluff, that I didn’t deserve to be here.

I met her gaze and forced a smile. “I appreciate the question. And I agree that methodological clarity is important. But I believe we need to rethink what counts as data. Displacement isn’t just economic or structural, it’s psychological, gendered, and cultural. Stories aren’t just stories. They’re social facts. I’m not choosing anecdotes over analysis. I’m asking for an expansion of what we consider valid knowledge.”

I looked away from her, hoping she was satisfied.

She wasn’t.

“But, your argument hinges heavily on qualitative insights,” she said. “How do you defend the lack of measurable outcomes? At what point does personal narrative become anecdotal fluff?”

I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

I smiled, keeping my voice even. “It’s true my research prioritizes narrative voices. But I’d argue that when entire communities are relocated, what we dismiss as anecdotal is the data. Displacement isn’t always about metrics. Sometimes, it’s about memory, identity, and belonging. Those aren’t fluff. They’re what policy often misses.”

Then one of the faculty members nodded. “That’s a compelling point.” She turned to look at Mara. “Let’s not dismiss the importance of qualitative data.”

Mara looked like she’d bitten into something sour.

I finished the Q&A with shaking fingers, packed up my papers, and exited the room with my heart still pounding.

I made it down the hall before I leaned against a wall, exhaling shakily. My hands trembled as I tucked my hair behind my ears.

And then I heard footsteps.

I didn’t have to look up. I knew it was him.

“Willow.”

His voice was soft. But serious.

I turned to face him.

He stood a few steps away, looking at me like he wanted to close the distance but was holding himself back. We were still on university grounds. Still teacher and student.

“You did... incredible,” he said quietly. “Your voice didn’t waver once. Even when she went after you.”

I swallowed. “She’s angry I’m a threat. Or maybe she just hates me.”

“She’s petty,” he said. Then, he chuckled, “You are a threat. You’re better. Clearer. And you were brave as hell today.”

A lump formed in my throat. “I was terrified.”

He smiled faintly. “It didn’t show.”

I paused, then lowered my voice. “Did I embarrass you? Sitting up there, talking about memory and belonging like I had something real to say?”

Declan stepped forward. Just slightly. His voice dropped. “Willow… watching you today was one of the proudest moments of my life.”

I blinked hard. My vision blurred, but I didn’t cry.

Not here.

“You think I have a chance?” I asked.

“You’re the strongest candidate in that room,” he said. “And not just because I love you. But because your work matters.”

He squeezed my hand for just a second. He bent down, to whisper in my ear, “You looked so fucking hot, up there in my shirt, being the smartest girl in the room. My smart girl.”

I looked up at him, grinning. “Do I get a reward?”

He smiled, his gaze on me heated. “Meet me in my office in ten.”