Chapter 40
DELILAH
It’s first week back after the holidays and UMS auditorium buzzes with nervous energy.
Everyone's dressed up—not quite formal, but the kind of polished that happens when students who normally live in hoodies actually try.
I tug at the sleeve of my black blazer, smoothing out wrinkles that aren't there.
“Stop fidgeting,” Trixie whispers, nudging my knee with hers. “You look great.”
I give her a grateful smile. “Thanks. So do you.”
It's been a month since I submitted the project with Troy. A month of avoiding the engineering building, taking different routes to class, pretending my heart doesn't skip whenever I see someone with his height or build across campus.
A month of growing, too.
I scan the room, trying to look casual about it.
The finalists are all seated in the first few rows, partners next to each other—except for us.
Troy is four rows ahead, on the opposite side.
Even from behind, I'd know him anywhere.
The way he holds himself, confident and at ease.
The slight tilt of his head when he listens.
The way his shoulders shake slightly when he laughs.
He's talking to the person next to him—some guy I don't recognize—gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's explaining something he's passionate about. He looks good. Really good. Like the past four weeks haven't touched him at all.
I wonder if that's true.
“Delilah,” Trixie singsongs, waving her hand in front of my face. “You're staring again.”
I snap my attention back to her, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Don't be.” She squeezes my hand. “I'd stare too. That boy is fine.”
I laugh despite myself. Trixie has that effect—drawing out happiness even when I'm determined to brood.
We met, again, in the architecture computer lab a day after everything fell apart with Troy.
I was holed up at 2 AM, bleary-eyed, trying to finish a rendering.
She strolled in with a thermos of coffee and two cups, set one in front of me without asking, and announced, “You look like you could use this more than sleep.”
Four hours later, we'd finished our respective projects and exchanged life stories.
Or at least, I'd told her more about myself than I'd told anyone in years. Including the saga of Troy Hawkins. I even showed her the custom layered masks technique she’d wanted to see earlier in the year. After that, we became good friends.
We both stayed on campus over Christmas break, so spent a lot of time together.
“How are you feeling?” she asks now, her voice softer. “About seeing him, I mean.”
I consider lying, then remember my promise to myself. No more walls. Not with people who've earned my trust.
“Like I might throw up,” I admit. “Or cry. Or both.”
She nods. “That's fair.”
“I just—” I cut myself off as the dean approaches the podium. “Never mind. I'll tell you later.”
The truth is, I don't know what I'd say anyway. That I miss him? That I regret pushing him away? That I've spent the last month building a better version of myself, one who lets people in, one who might actually be worthy of him?
That I'm terrified it's too late?
“Welcome, everyone,” the dean begins, her voice echoing through the auditorium. “We're here to celebrate the remarkable achievements of this year's Future Innovators Design and Innovation Challenge finalists...”
I try to listen, but my eyes keep drifting back to Troy. He's sitting straighter now, focused on the dean. Professional. Poised. I wonder if he's nervous. If he cares about winning.
If he's thought about me at all.
“The judges were impressed by the creativity and vision demonstrated in all five finalist projects,” the dean continues. “Before we announce the winner, I'd like to acknowledge each team and their contributions.”
Trixie grabs my hand as the dean begins to describe the projects, starting with the team seated at the far end of the front row.
“Your turn soon,” she whispers, excitement making her practically vibrate in her seat.
“Yours too,” I whisper back.
Trixie and her partner Jonathan created something extraordinary—a mathematical model of water flow that demonstrates how small changes in environment can create cascading effects throughout an ecosystem.
She explained it to me over coffee last week, her eyes lighting up as she described the intricate calculations behind their visual display.
I didn't understand half of it, but her passion was contagious.
It's strange, having a friend who gets so excited about her work. Who listens when I talk about mine. Who knows my coffee order and remembers to ask about my mom and doesn't mind when I need space.
“And now,” the dean says, “the project submitted by Delilah Greer and Troy Hawkins: ‘The Living Classroom: Regenerative Education Through Design.’”
My breath stutters. Hearing our names said together like that, in a room full of people, feels unreal. Like a ghost I didn’t know I’d been carrying finally let go.
“This submission stood out for its bold, community-centered vision,” the dean continues.
“Greer and Hawkins approached the challenge not just as a design problem, but as a chance to reframe what a building can be.
Rather than a static structure, their proposal transforms the D4 toilet block into a living, evolving educational hub—one that teaches sustainability by doing, not just by existing.
“The judges were particularly struck by the project's long-term impact model, its user-led systems, and its refusal to separate form from function. This wasn’t just a plan—it was a philosophy. A way of saying: Education doesn’t end when you leave the classroom.
Sometimes, the building is the teacher.”
Trixie exhales beside me, a short, stunned breath that matches the chaos happening in my own chest.
“In the judges’ words,” the dean finishes, “this project was not only feasible—it was visionary.”
Trixie squeezes my hand again, this time with a little excited shake. “That's you!” she whispers, unnecessarily but sweetly.
I nod, unable to speak. My eyes find Troy again, but he's still facing forward. I can't see his expression, can't tell what he's thinking.
The dean describes the remaining projects, each one impressive in its own way. Then she pauses, building anticipation.
“After careful deliberation, the judges have selected the winner of this year's Future Innovators Challenge, who will receive the ten-thousand-dollar grant and see their project implemented on campus...”
The room goes still, everyone holding their breath.
“The winners are... Delilah Greer and Troy Hawkins with 'The Living Classroom'!”
For a moment, I don't move. Can't move. The words don't quite register.
A wave of relief hits me so hard—like someone just lifted a concrete block off my chest that I've been carrying for years. My rent. Books for my final semester. The emergency fund I've been desperately trying to rebuild.
The constant, gnawing anxiety about money that's been my unwanted companion since childhood suddenly quiets for a moment, just enough to hear myself think.
I don't cry. I don't scream. That's not who I am. But I do take a deep, steadying breath.
Trixie squeals, throwing her arms around me. “You won! You did it!”
Around us, people are applauding. I stand on shaky legs, still stunned.
And then, across the rows of seats, Troy turns.
His eyes find mine instantly, like he knows exactly where I am. Like he's been aware of me this whole time.
He smiles—not his usual confident grin, but something smaller, more genuine. Almost shy.
And just like that, all the careful distance I've maintained collapses.
“Go,” Trixie says, nudging me forward. “Go talk to him.”
I hesitate, frozen in place.
“Delilah,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Remember what we talked about? About taking chances?”
I do remember. All our late-night conversations about trust and risk and how sometimes the scariest things are the most worthwhile.
“What if he doesn't want to talk to me?” I whisper.
“Then at least you'll know,” she says simply. “But I have a feeling that's not going to be a problem.”
I glance back at Troy. He's still watching me, waiting.
Taking a deep breath, I step into the aisle and begin making my way toward him. Toward the stage. Toward whatever comes next.
Behind me, I hear Trixie's encouraging “You got this!” And for once, I almost believe it.
Maybe I'm not the same person who pushed Troy away. Maybe I've learned how to let people in—not just Trixie, but Lacey, Mr. Abernathy, even my mom in the limited way that's possible with her.
Maybe I'm finally ready to try again.
As I approach Troy, his smile widens, warming his eyes. He holds out his hand to me—not in a formal way, but as an offering. A question.
And this time, I'm ready with an answer.
I take Troy's outstretched hand, and the brief contact sends electricity rushing through me. His palm is warm, familiar. His eyes search mine with a question I'm not ready to answer yet.
Together, we make our way to the stage as the applause continues. Professor Holwell is standing at the podium, holding our award certificate and looking genuinely pleased. The dean steps aside to give us room.
As we climb the steps, Troy leans in close. His breath tickles my ear, making me shiver.
“Do you want to say anything?” he whispers.
The thought of public speaking right now—with my nerves already frayed, my emotions raw—makes my throat close up. I shake my head quickly.
“No,” I whisper back, “I can't.”
Troy nods, his hand finding the small of my back as we approach the podium. It's a light touch, supportive rather than possessive. “No problem. I've got this.”
Before I can process the comfort of his touch, we're standing at the microphone. Professor Holwell is shaking our hands, passing the certificate to Troy. The spotlight feels hot, and the sea of faces makes my heart race.