Love, Lost and Loyalty

Chapter 2: The Announcement

The campus felt normal that morning in a way that made it even harder to believe what was coming. Students moved through the walkways with light steps, some laughing in small groups, others scrolling through their phones, and a few walking alone with tired faces from lectures or sleepless nights. The sun was bright but not harsh, and the air carried the usual mix of noise, movement, and routine that made the university feel alive.

Near the faculty notice board, something small began to form without warning. At first it was just two or three students standing closer than usual, their attention fixed on a single sheet of paper pinned neatly at the center. Then more people came, drawn by curiosity, slowing their steps as they approached. Within a short time, the space turned into a cluster of bodies, shifting positions, stretching necks, and trying to read what had pulled everyone together.

The sheet itself looked ordinary at first glance. Printed lines, official formatting, names arranged in columns. But at the top corner of one section, a name stood out clearly, and that was where the attention stayed. Michael Adeyemi.

There was a moment where no one spoke properly. Some students leaned forward, narrowing their eyes as if distance was the reason they were not understanding it. Others let out small, uncertain laughs that did not sound like amusement but disbelief trying to find shape. A few simply stood still, reading the same line again and again, expecting it to change if they looked long enough.

Then someone spoke, breaking the silence in a sharp voice that carried through the group.

"That score is not possible"

The words triggered a reaction immediately. A few heads turned, and conversations began to overlap. Some students compared what they remembered from the exam, trying to measure difficulty against what they were seeing. Others pointed at the sheet, arguing about grading standards, as if logic alone could explain it.

But beneath the confusion, something else began to grow.

Recognition.

A girl standing near the side of the crowd stepped closer, her expression slowly changing as she stared at the name. She blinked once, then again, as if trying to pull a memory into focus.

"I saw him during that exam" she said quietly. "He was sitting alone in the corner. He finished very early. I remember thinking it was strange"

Another student nodded slowly beside her, as if her words had unlocked something in his mind.

"Yes… I remember too. He did not struggle like the rest of us. He just wrote and wrote without stopping"

The energy in the crowd shifted. It was no longer just disbelief about a score. It was something more unsettled, like memory itself was being questioned. Students looked at each other as if trying to confirm whether what they remembered was real or not.

Then a phone buzzed.

It was not loud, but it cut through the moment clearly. One of the students at the front checked his screen, expecting a normal message, but his expression changed as soon as he read it. His thumb froze over the screen, and for a second he did not speak.

"What is it" someone asked.

He hesitated, then turned the phone slightly so others could see.

The message was short.

Michael Adeyemi is dead.

A few people laughed immediately, thinking it was a joke. Campus rumors were common, and sometimes people used names carelessly just to get attention. But the laughter faded quickly when no one else joined in.

The student holding the phone scrolled down slowly. Another line appeared beneath the first.

Accident confirmed days before exam results.

The air around them changed.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet shift where conversations stopped halfway and eyes began to linger on the screen longer than they should. Someone reached for the phone, read it again, then passed it to another person without saying anything.

A student near the front stepped back slightly, his face tightening.

"I saw him write that exam" he said slowly. "I saw him there myself"

Another voice followed immediately, sharper and confused.

"But this says he is dead"

The two statements existed side by side now, refusing to connect. One belonged to memory. The other belonged to information. And neither felt like it could be ignored.

The crowd began to spread out unevenly, some stepping away from the board, others staying rooted in place. Conversations broke into smaller fragments, with people speaking at the same time but no one fully listening. The confusion was no longer just about Michael. It was about what could be trusted at all.

Then a lecturer arrived.

He moved through the edge of the crowd, asking students to make space as he reached the notice board. When he saw the sheet properly, he did not react immediately. Instead, he took it down carefully, holding it in both hands as his eyes moved across the details.

His expression stayed controlled, but there was a slight pause when he reached the name.

Michael Adeyemi.

He looked up at the students gathered around him.

"Who supervised this exam" he asked.

The question did not receive a quick answer. It hovered in the air, heavy enough to slow people down. Eventually, someone pointed toward the administrative building, mentioning the invigilator assigned to the hall.

It did not take long before the invigilator arrived.

He looked slightly rushed, as if he had been called away from something important. When he reached the lecturer, the sheet was handed to him without explanation. The moment his eyes landed on it, something in his face shifted subtly.

He recognized the name.

"I supervised that exam" he said after a moment. "I remember him clearly"

A student nearby spoke up immediately.

"They are saying he is dead"

The invigilator frowned slightly, as if trying to place the statement properly against his memory.

"He was there" he replied. "He wrote the exam. I collected his script myself"

The lecturer studied him carefully, not interrupting.

"Are you certain about what you saw"

The invigilator paused for a brief moment. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but it was there. Then he nodded.

"Yes. I am certain"

But even as he said it, something in his tone felt less firm than before.

That silence between certainty and doubt settled over the group.

Because now there were only two realities that refused to align. A student who had written a perfect exam, and a student who was now being described as dead.

And somewhere between those two truths, something was missing that no one could yet explain.

As the crowd slowly began to disperse, the questions did not leave with them. They stayed behind, quieter now, but heavier. Not spoken, but carried.

Because if Michael was truly gone before the results were released, then what exactly had been sitting in that exam hall, writing without hesitation, as if nothing in the world could stop him.

And why did it suddenly feel like the answer was not something anyone was ready to face.