Softhearted Daniel
935 Words
đź“–Chapter Thirteen
Softhearted Daniel
.
.
.
Amara didn’t expect Daniel to be the one who suggested they take a break.
They had been working for nearly two hours without stopping.
Again.
Ever since the night they lost the spreadsheet and rebuilt half their data from memory, something about their rhythm had changed.
They worked faster now.
More naturally.
Like they already knew how the other person thought.
“Let’s step outside,” Daniel said quietly.
She looked up from her notes.
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
She hesitated.
Then closed her notebook.
“Fine.”
The evening air outside the Faculty building felt cooler than she expected.
Campus was quieter at this hour.
Not empty.
Just softer.
Students passed in small groups, laughter floating across the walkways, conversations fading in and out as people headed toward hostels or evening classes.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.
Then Daniel said something unexpected.
“My father thinks I’m wasting time here.”
Amara blinked.
She turned toward him.
“What?”
He didn’t look at her immediately.
“He thinks student politics is a distraction.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“It’s not just that.”
He exhaled slowly.
“He thinks most things I do are distractions.”
Amara frowned slightly.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to him.”
They walked a little further before he continued.
“He wants me to focus on graduating first class. Nothing else.”
“You’re already on track for that.”
“That’s not enough.”
She studied him carefully.
“What does he want?”
“A plan.”
“For what?”
“My life.”
She almost smiled.
“Everyone wants a plan.”
“Yes,” Daniel said quietly. “But not everyone has someone reminding them about it every week.”
There was something in his voice she hadn’t heard before.
Not frustration.
Something heavier than that.
“Does he know about the department project?”
“He knows.”
“And?”
“He asked why I agreed to work with someone else instead of leading my own independent research.”
Amara stopped walking.
“What?”
“He thinks group work slows people down.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I told him that.”
“And?”
“He disagreed.”
She crossed her arms.
“He sounds difficult.”
Daniel laughed softly.
“He sounds like someone who thinks pressure builds strong people.”
“And what do you think?”
He finally looked at her then.
“I think pressure builds quiet people.”
Something about that answer stayed with her longer than she expected.
“You don’t seem quiet,” she said.
“I am,” he replied simply. “Just not where people can see it.”
They walked again.
Slower this time.
“My father planned everything,” he continued. “Where I would study. What I would study. When I should graduate. What comes next.”
“And you agreed?”
“I didn’t argue.”
“Why?”
“Because it was easier.”
She understood that answer immediately.
Too immediately.
“That doesn’t sound like you,” she said gently.
“It’s not the version of me most people know.”
“I’m not most people.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Daniel looked at her again.
Longer this time.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”
For a moment neither of them moved.
Campus lights flickered on across the pathway beside them.
Students walked past without noticing them standing there.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked finally.
“What?”
“I’m not even sure what I want instead.”
She didn’t answer right away.
Because she knew that feeling.
Too well.
“That’s normal,” she said softly.
“It doesn’t feel normal.”
“It is.”
He looked unconvinced.
“So what do you want?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught her off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“After graduation.”
She hesitated.
“I want stability.”
“That’s not a career.”
“I know.”
“That’s a feeling.”
“I know.”
He waited.
She sighed.
“I want to finish school without losing my scholarship. I want to help my family. I want to stop worrying about things I shouldn’t have to worry about yet.”
Daniel didn’t interrupt her.
“I want things to be easier,” she finished quietly.
He nodded slowly.
“That sounds like a plan.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because it’s honest.”
Something in her chest shifted slightly.
“Most people don’t say that out loud,” he added.
“Most people don’t ask.”
They both laughed softly.
Then the silence returned again.
But this time it felt different.
Not awkward.
Not uncertain.
Comfortable.
Like something steady had settled between them without either of them noticing when it started.
“Amara.”
She looked up.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad we’re working together.”
The words sounded simple.
But they didn’t feel simple.
“Me too,” she admitted.
And somehow—
for the first time since the project began—
it didn’t feel like something she was saying just to be polite.
- Writer
