Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Kelechi
Tuesday came faster than I expected. And before I knew it, I was already in the library, making my way towards the corner table by the philosophy section.
If you asked me how I located it, well, it wasn’t as difficult as I had expected.
All I had to do was ask the librarian for directions. She was a sweet woman who had gone so far as to walk me there herself. But now, as she left me alone after pointing out the area, a nervous flutter started in my stomach.
Firstly, this whole academic pairing thing with Marley was really happening. And secondly, there was that strange, jittery feeling that showed up every time I knew I would be anywhere near her.
I had been trying not to think about why I kept noticing certain things about her.
The way she held her pen during lectures, her fingers relaxed but clean in their motion.
How she barely took notes and still knew exactly what to say when the professors called on her.
Or was it the confident way she walked across campus.
Gosh.
These weren’t things you noticed about someone you disliked, were they?
Heaven help me, but I sincerely had no idea why. Maybe I just admired confident people, I reasoned quickly. That had to be it. There was absolutely nothing deep or strange about it.
Yes, it was admiration. That definitely explained it.
I got to one of the tables and looked around, this part of the library was completely empty and my annoying course mate slash project partner hadn't even shown up yet.
“Four o’clock indeed,” I muttered, rolling my eyes as I dropped my bag on the table and pulled out a chair.
After sitting down, I brought out my laptop and the few textbooks I had brought for our research. I had selected a textbook on cultural adaptation and one on gender expression. As I waited, curiosity got the best of me.
Within five minutes, I had started reading the first chapter of the book titled Beyond the Binary: Exploring Fluid Identities in Contemporary Society.
The text was dense but fascinating, discussing how gender expression existed on a spectrum and not in rigid categories. I found myself genuinely absorbed, taking notes in the margins when I heard footsteps approaching.
“Well, well. Look who’s already doing homework.”
I looked up to find Marley standing to my left, beside the table, her backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly mussed, probably from running her fingers through it.
She was wearing a dark green Henley that somehow made her eyes look brighter, paired with those same black boots from our first meeting.
She looked… good.
The thought hit me unexpectedly. The Henley fit her perfectly, outlining the strength of her shoulders.
I caught myself staring a beat too long before quickly looking back down at my book.
“You’re late,” I said, checking my watch. “It’s already quarter past four.”
“I overslept,” she said with a shrug, dropping into the chair across from me.
Not even an apology.
“Well, try not to oversleep next time. Besides, I’m not doing homework,” I added, closing the book a little defensively. “I’m preparing for our project.”
“Beyond the Binary,” she read from the cover, raising an eyebrow as she settled in. “Interesting choice. Getting familiar with enemy territory?”
“It’s not enemy territory, it’s called research… ever heard of that?”
“Research,” she repeated, pulling out her own laptop. Even that felt calculated when she did it. “And what groundbreaking insights have you discovered about people like me since you started reading it?”
There was an edge to her voice that made me look up from my notes.
“People like you?”
“Gender nonconforming individuals. Butch women. Whatever category you want to stick on me for your little academic notes.”
I felt heat rise in my cheeks.
“I wasn’t trying to label you. I was trying to understand the theoretical framework we’ll be working with.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned back in her chair, studying me with those penetrating green eyes. The library lights caught gold flecks in them, and for a second, I forgot what I was supposed to say.
“And what does the textbook tell you about identity, princess?”
The nickname made my stomach do that strange little flip again.
There was something about her voice, the thick accent that made certain consonants hit harder.
“It talks about gender conformance and the social construction of identity. About how people express themselves outside traditional binary expectations.”
“Very academic.” She tilted her head. “But what do you actually think?”
“About what?”
“About me. About the way I look, the way I present myself. Do you think it’s some sort of rebellion, or do you think this is just who I am?”
The question caught me off guard.
Before I knew it I was taking her in. The unapologetic posture, the composure, the complete lack of self-consciousness. There was something truly magnetic about it.
“I think,” I said slowly, “you’re exactly who you want to be. And that’s probably why you seem so sure of yourself.”
Her expression changed. The defensive edge on it softened into surprise..or shock. I couldn’t tell which.
“Does my confidence make you uncomfortable?”
Before I could answer, she reached across the table and took the textbook from my hands, our fingers brushing in the process.
The contact was brief, but it sent a small jolt through me.
Her hands were warm, slightly rough, and for one dangerous second, I wondered how they would feel—
I shut the thought down immediately, horrified at where my mind was going.
“Let’s see what brilliant insights this has to say about gender fluidity,” she said, flipping through the pages.
But my brain was still stuck on her question.
Why would I find her confidence uncomfortable?
It didn’t, I realised.
If anything, it intrigued me.
Which was somehow worse.
“So,” she said, looking up from the book, “cultural adaptation and gender expression. How do we make this work without killing each other?”
I forced myself to focus on academics, on safe ground.
“Maybe we could explore how different cultural contexts shape the expression and acceptance of non-binary gender identities?”
“Not terrible,” she admitted. “But let’s avoid the whole ‘Western liberation versus traditional oppression’ angle. It’s reductive.”
“Agreed. What if we focused on specific case studies? Individual stories rather than broad generalisations?”
“Better.” She leaned forward, suddenly animated. “We could interview people from different cultural backgrounds about their gender expression experiences. Make it personal, not just theoretical.”
“Interview people?” My voice came out higher than intended. “Like, actual people?”
“That’s generally how interviews work, yes.”
The dry humour in her response made my lips twitch despite my nervousness.
“I’ve never conducted interviews before.”
“I have. I’ll show you.” Her tone was casual, but something about the certainty in it made my pulse jump. “It’s not that complicated. You just need to know how to ask the right questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
She smiled, and it was the first genuine smile I’d seen from her. It transformed her entire face, softening the sharp edges and revealing something almost tender underneath.
My breath caught at the sight.
“The type that makes people want to tell you their secrets.”
I stared at her, wondering if she was still talking about research methodology, and trying very hard to ignore the way that smile made my stomach knot.
I wanted to see it again.
“Oh,” I breathed, the word barely a whisper as my thoughts scattered.
“Yes,” she said, her voice lowering, turning intimate.
Our eyes met and held, and suddenly I couldn’t remember how to breathe properly.
Her gaze was intense, almost searching. Those pale green eyes made me feel exposed in a way that should have been uncomfortable, but instead warmth spread slowly through me, settling somewhere low and unfamiliar.
Was this how admiration felt? This strange pull, this sense that the air between us was brimmed with things I didn’t have words for?
But I had admired people in the past. My high school teacher, whose classes I loved. My cousins, excelling in their own fields. People I respected.
But this wasn’t that.
So… was this?
Attraction?
The jarring sound of a ringtone sliced through the moment.
I gasped, my body jerking as if I’d been struck by lightning, and my hands flew to my bag in panic.
“It’s mine,” Marley said, her voice slightly rougher than before. She held up her iPhone and answered without looking away from me. “What’s up, Atlas?”
A tiny, loud female voice burst through the speaker. Marley held the phone slightly away from her ear, her lips quirked in what might have been annoyance or amusement.
I should have been irritated—taking calls in the library was rude, but when I glanced around, the philosophy section was empty.
It was just the two of us.
I dropped my gaze to my hands, fidgeting with the straps of my bag, pretending not to listen.
“Take a chill pill, Atlas,” Marley said, leaning back in her chair. “The date at Roxie’s was exhausting. She was boring and spent the whole evening talking about her job and checking her phone instead of paying attention to our date, so I bailed.”
My stomach tightened at the casual dismissal in her voice.
So she had been on a date that day.
With a woman.
Oh.
Atlas’s voice crackled again, and I caught fragments of something about being too picky.
“You know how I want my woman, Atlas,” she said.
My heart started racing so fast I was certain it would burst right out of my chest.
I looked up without meaning to.
Those green eyes captured mine immediately, holding me prisoner as if she had reached across the table and grabbed me.
“I want them breathless,” she said slowly, her gaze never leaving mine. “The kind who forget to speak when I look at them. Who thinks too much about everything.”
Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but in the library’s quiet, every syllable hit me.
“The kind who shiver when I get too close. Who bites their lips when they’re thinking about things they shouldn’t be thinking about.”
Heat exploded across my cheeks, so sudden and intense I felt dizzy.
My throat tightened, and I started coughing—loud, embarrassing coughs that made my eyes water.
“Excuse me,” I croaked, stumbling to my feet so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.
Without looking at her, I held up one finger and practically fled towards the bookshelves, desperate to put distance between us.
But even with my back turned, I could feel her gaze following me, burning into my shoulder blades and sending shivers racing down my spine.
Each step I took felt unsteady, every breath shallow. I pressed my palms against the spine of a random book just to have something solid to hold onto.
Marley liked women.
That should have been obvious from the start.
I mean, who dresses masculine to pull men?
“Gosh, you’re so naive, KC,” I muttered to myself as I picked up a book on epistemological phenomena and flipped through it.
But my mind was somewhere else.
Why did I even run away?
Why did she make me nervous?
Why did I get flustered or hot whenever I was around her?
Why did my stomach flip every time she looked at me?
I had a hundred questions and not a single answer.
This was all shades of ridiculous.
“Hey.”
I froze, then turned and nearly collided with her.
She was standing only a few inches away.
Very close.
Calm down, Kelechi.
“Are you done with your call?” I asked, placing the book back on the shelf with exaggerated focus.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s go back to our seats and work on the abstract. I have a Zoom meeting in an hour and a half,” I lied.
“Oh, okay. Sure.”
An hour later, we had managed to draft a solid abstract for our project and scheduled our next meeting for Thursday.
When we left the library, early evening light stretched across campus as the sun sank lower, casting long shadows across the walkway.
“So where do you stay?” Marley asked, adjusting her backpack strap.
“The dorms,” I replied, pointing towards the residential area. “You?”
“Off campus. My apartment is about ten minutes away from here.” She glanced at me. “Your dorm is close to the science building, right? That’s like a seven-minute walk from here.”
I blinked. “Yes.”
“Want a ride? I’m parked right over there,” she said, pointing to a white Honda under the shade of a large oak tree.
“Oh, you don’t have to. It’s really not that far.”
“I know, but I’m offering.”
There was something in her tone that made it hard to refuse.
“Okay, sure. Thanks.”
We walked to her car, and before I realised what she was doing, she stepped ahead and opened the passenger door for me.
I stared at her.
The gesture caught me completely off guard, no one had ever done that for me before.
“Oh,” I said softly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, and I caught the hint of a smile before I slid into the seat.
The ride was quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the radio playing a song I didn’t know.
I kept sneaking glances at her, at the easy way she handled the steering, one hand resting loosely on the gear shift, completely relaxed.
The silence wasn’t even uncomfortable.
But it was intense for me.
When we pulled up in front of my dorm building, I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face her.
“Thank you for the ride,” I said.
“No problem.”
I paused, my hand on the handle.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
“Yeah, see you in class,” she replied, her eyes meeting mine briefly before I looked away.
I stepped out of the car and closed the door gently, giving her a small wave through the window.
As I walked towards the entrance of my dorm building, I heard the engine start up again. I couldn’t help but turn around to watch her drive away.
And despite how nervous she made me feel, despite how confusing everything was, I already knew I was looking forward to seeing her again.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not.