ANXIETY

Chapter One

A Girl With A Different Accent

Bolanle Ayomide Precious woke up before her alarm.

Not because she was rested.

But because sleep had become something her body did out of habit, not peace.

The room was still unfamiliar. The curtains were thinner than the ones back home in Nigeria, and the cold light sneaking through them felt different—sharper, colder, more distant.

For a few seconds, she just lay there staring at the ceiling.

Then it hit her again.

America.

Not a dream. Not a temporary trip.

This was now her life.

She slowly sat up, pressing her palms into her face.

“God…” she whispered, barely audible. “Please help me today.”

From the other room, she heard movement. Her mother was already awake.

Mrs. Ayomide Magret was always awake early now. Since they moved, she barely slept properly either. Everything about her had become quieter, more observant, like she was also trying to understand this new world.

Bolanle stood up slowly and walked to the mirror.

Her reflection looked the same… but also not.

Same dark skin. Same deep eyes. Same long natural hair tied loosely.

But her expression.

Her expression looked tired in a way she couldn’t explain.

Like she was already exhausted before the day even started.

A knock came at her door.

“Bolanle?” her mother called gently. “Are you up?”

“Yes, Mummy,” she answered quickly, fixing her shirt.

The door opened slowly and her mother stepped in.

She looked at Bolanle for a moment before speaking.

“You didn’t sleep well again.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bolanle forced a small smile. “I’m fine.”

Her mother sighed softly, walking closer and adjusting the collar of her shirt. “You always say that when you are not fine.”

Silence followed.

Because Bolanle didn’t know how to respond to that.

Her mother’s eyes softened. “Today is your first full day at Westbridge. You don’t have to be perfect.

“I know.”

“But you are trying too hard to survive inside your head,” she continued quietly. “Don’t let fear follow you into every room.”

Bolanle’s fingers tightened slightly.

Fear.

If only it was that simple.

If only she could tell her mother that sometimes her chest tightened for no reason. That sometimes her mind convinced her she was being watched even when no one cared. That sometimes she felt like disappearing just to breathe properly again.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Instead she nodded.

“I’ll be okay.”

Her mother studied her for a moment longer, then kissed her forehead.

“I am praying for you.”

And she left.

The kitchen smelled faintly of tea and bread.

Her father, Mr. Ayomide Charles, was already dressed for work. His posture was straight, serious, as always. A man who believed deeply in discipline, structure, and silence over emotion.

“You’re leaving early today,” he said without looking up from his phone.

“Yes sir,” Bolanle replied softly.

He finally looked at her.

“You remember what I told you?”

She nodded again.

“No distractions. Focus on your studies. We didn’t come here for friendship or entertainment. We came here for a better future.”

A pause.

Then

“And don’t let them see weakness.”

That last sentence sat heavier than the others.

Bolanle didn’t respond.

Because she wasn’t sure how you hide something that already feels like it’s inside your bones.

The drive to Westbridge Community College in Chicago felt longer than it should have.

The city passed by slowly outside the car window—tall buildings, rushing people, traffic lights blinking like they had somewhere important to be.

Bolanle watched everything in silence.

Her hands were resting on her lap, but her fingers kept moving slightly.

A habit.

A nervous habit.

Her mother noticed it.

She reached over and gently held her hand.

“Breathe,” she whispered.

Bolanle tried.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It helped… a little.

But not enough.

Because the closer they got to the college, the tighter her chest felt.

Westbridge Community College appeared ahead—large, structured, busy.

Too many people.

Too many unknown faces.

Too many chances to be judged.

Her father parked the car.

“This is it,” he said firmly. “First step.”

Bolanle swallowed.

First step into what exactly?

Success? Or survival?

She opened the door slowly.

Cold air hit her face immediately.

It felt like stepping into a world that didn’t pause for anyone.

Students walked past in groups, laughing loudly, speaking fast, comfortable in a way she wasn’t.

Bolanle adjusted her backpack.

Her heart started beating faster.

Not again… please not again…

She looked down at her shoes for a second.

Focus.

Just walk.

Just breathe.

Just exist.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head:

Don’t let fear follow you into every room.

But fear was already there.

Walking beside her.

The hallway inside Westbridge Community College felt louder than outside.

Locker doors slammed. Shoes squeaked against polished floors. Conversations overlapped like waves crashing into each other without warning.

Bolanle walked slowly, checking her schedule paper again for the third time in less than five minutes.

Room 204.

Psychology.

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

“Okay…” she whispered to herself. “Just don’t get lost.”

But the truth was, she already felt slightly lost.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

She turned a corner and almost bumped into someone.

“Whoa—careful!”

Bolanle quickly stepped back, startled.

A girl stood in front of her, holding a stack of books and looking at her with wide curious eyes.

“Sorry!” the girl said quickly. Then she smiled. “You must be new.”

Bolanle blinked.

“Yes…”

The girl’s smile brightened immediately like she had just found something interesting.

“I knew it. You have that ‘first day confusion’ face.”

Bolanle didn’t know what to say to that.

The girl laughed softly and shifted her books to one arm.

“I’m Nia,” she said. “Nia Brooks.”

There was something about her energy—warm, loud in a comforting way, like she wasn’t afraid of the world or the people in it.

Bolanle relaxed just slightly.

“I’m Bolanle,” she replied.

Nia paused.

Then her eyes widened a little.

“Bolanle… wait, that’s a beautiful name.”

A small silence followed.

It wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t mockery.

Just genuine curiosity.

Bolanle nodded softly. “Thank you.”

Nia tilted her head. “Where you from? Your accent sounds… different. In a good way.”

“Nigeria.”

Nia’s face lit up even more.

“Oh wow. That’s so cool. You’re like actually international international.”

That made Bolanle almost smile.

Almost.

Before she could respond, another voice joined in.

“Please don’t scare her on her first day.”

A boy leaned casually against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching them with an amused expression.

He was calm.

Too calm.

Like nothing in this building stressed him.

Nia rolled her eyes instantly.

“Oh my God, Diego, nobody asked you.”

Diego.

He pushed himself off the wall and walked closer.

“I’m just saying,” he replied smoothly, “you’re doing your usual thing—talking too much too fast.”

Nia gasped dramatically.

“Excuse me?”

He ignored her and turned his attention to Bolanle.

His expression softened slightly.

“You’re new-new, right?”

Bolanle nodded.

“Yeah. I’m Diego Martinez.”

He gave a small polite smile.

Unlike Nia, his energy was quieter. Observant. Careful. Like he noticed things people usually ignored.

“You’re looking for Room 204?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going there too. Come on.”

Nia immediately stepped in.

“And I’m coming too because I don’t trust him to give directions without getting lost.”

Diego clicked his tongue. “That’s offensive.”

“It’s true.”

Bolanle watched them argue lightly, and for the first time since arriving in America, something in her chest loosened.

Not fully.

But slightly.

Like her body was remembering what it felt like not to be completely alone.

They started walking together.

Nia talked the whole way.

“So you’re from Nigeria? That’s so interesting. Do you miss it? Like food-wise? Because I feel like I would miss food immediately.”

Diego added casually, “She’s asking the important questions first day.”

Nia glared at him. “Shut up.”

Bolanle listened quietly, then answered softly, “I miss it… yes.”

Her voice was careful.

Measured.

Like she was still testing if it was safe to speak freely.

Nia nodded like she understood more than she said.

“I get that,” she said. “New places hit different.”

Diego glanced at Bolanle again.

“You’ll adjust though,” he said simply. “Just takes time.”

That word.

Time.

Bolanle wasn’t sure she had enough of it to feel okay.

They reached Room 204.

Nia stopped at the door dramatically.

“Alright Bolanle,” she said. “First class in America. No pressure.”

Diego smirked. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s motivational.”

Bolanle exhaled slowly.

Then she nodded.

“Thank you.”

She stepped toward the door.

Before she entered, Nia leaned slightly closer and whispered:

“If anyone tries anything funny, I got you.”

Diego added, “Same.”

For a second

Just a second

Bolanle believed it.

Then she opened the door.

Room 204 felt quieter than the hallway.

Not peaceful.

Just… controlled.

Bolanle stepped inside carefully, her eyes scanning the room like she was trying to memorize danger before it happened.

Rows of students sat scattered across desks—some talking, some on their phones, some already bored.

She could feel it immediately.

Being new wasn’t invisible.

It was loud.

Nia walked in right behind her, followed by Diego.

“Alright,” Nia whispered, leaning closer. “This is where people either survive or suffer.”

Diego sighed. “Stop scaring her.”

“I’m not scaring her, I’m preparing her.”

Bolanle didn’t fully understand what that meant, but she nodded slightly anyway.

They found seats near the middle of the class.

Bolanle sat carefully, placing her backpack beside her feet like it needed permission to exist.

Nia dropped into the seat next to her.

Diego sat on the other side.

“See?” Nia said proudly. “Instant protection.”

Diego muttered, “We’re not bodyguards.”

But he didn’t move away.

That alone made Bolanle feel a little safer.

Just a little.

---

The classroom door opened again.

A woman walked in.

And everything shifted.

Not because she was loud.

Not because she was dramatic.

But because she had presence.

She wore simple professional clothes, her hair tied neatly, glasses resting slightly on her nose. She carried a stack of papers in one hand and a calm authority in her steps.

She didn’t rush.

She didn’t hesitate.

She looked like someone who had seen too many students come and go—and still chose to care.

She placed her books on the desk and looked up.

“Good morning class.”

The room responded in scattered voices.

“Good morning, Professor.”

Her eyes scanned the room slowly.

Then stopped briefly on Bolanle.

Just for a second.

Not judgment.

Observation.

Then she smiled slightly.

“I am Professor Elena Brooks.”

A pause.

“I will be your Psychology instructor for this semester.”

She turned and wrote her name clearly on the board.

PROF. ELENA BROOKS

Then she faced them again.

“This is not a class where I want silence out of fear.”

Her voice was calm, but firm.

“If you are struggling, speak. If you are confused, ask. If you are going through something, you are not alone in this room.”

Bolanle blinked slowly.

Something about that sentence landed deeper than it should have.

Not alone.

She wasn’t used to hearing that.

Professor Brooks continued.

“Psychology is not just about theories. It is about people. And every single one of you is a story I will take seriously.”

Nia leaned slightly toward Bolanle and whispered, “She lowkey sounds like a therapist already.”

Diego nodded. “She’s serious-serious.”

Bolanle almost smiled again.

Almost.

---

“Before we begin,” Professor Brooks said, “I want us to do something simple.”

She turned slightly.

“Introduce yourselves. Just your name and something real about you.”

Groans immediately filled the room.

“Of course,” someone muttered.

“First day already doing too much,” another voice said.

But Professor Brooks didn’t react.

She simply waited.

Silence won.

Then she pointed gently toward the first student.

And introductions began.

Names. Hobbies. Forced confidence. Fake confidence. Loud personalities trying to sound interesting.

Bolanle’s chest tightened with each passing voice.

Her turn was coming.

She could feel it like pressure building behind her ribs.

Nia noticed immediately.

“You good?” she whispered.

Bolanle nodded quickly.

But her fingers were already trembling slightly under the desk.

Diego noticed too.

He didn’t say anything.

But he shifted slightly closer—not obvious, just enough that she would notice she wasn’t completely alone.

---

Then it happened.

“Next,” Professor Brooks said calmly.

A few heads turned.

And then—

Her eyes landed on Bolanle.

“Let’s hear from you.”

The room didn’t go silent.

But it felt like it did.

Bolanle swallowed hard.

Her heart started beating faster.

Too fast.

Her palms grew slightly cold.

She stood up slowly.

Every step to the front of the class felt heavier than it should have.

She stopped.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe normally.

Her mind started whispering things she hated:

What if they laugh?

What if they don’t understand you?

What if your accent sounds stupid?

What if you don’t belong here?

Her throat tightened.

She forced her mouth open.

“My name is Bolanle Ayomide Precious…”

Her voice was soft.

Careful.

“…I am from Nigeria.”

A few students nodded.

Some stared.

A girl in the back whispered something to her friend.

Bolanle heard it—but couldn’t process it fully.

Her anxiety was rising.

But she kept going.

“I am… studying Psychology.”

Pause.

Her fingers curled slightly.

“I am… happy to be here.”

Silence.

Then—

Professor Brooks gave a small nod.

“Thank you, Bolanle.”

That was it.

She could sit down.

She did.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like her body was still unsure if it was safe.

Nia immediately leaned closer.

“You did good,” she whispered.

Diego added quietly, “Better than most people actually.”

Bolanle didn’t answer.

Because her chest was still tight.

But she nodded slightly anyway.

And from across the room.

A girl with perfectly styled hair, sharp eyes, and an unreadable expression had been watching her the entire time.

Gwen Harper.

And she didn’t blink once.

The moment Bolanle sat down, she tried to slow her breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

But her chest still felt tight.

Like something inside her hadn’t settled yet.

Nia leaned closer immediately. “You okay?”

Bolanle nodded quickly. “Yes.”

Diego didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push.

Professor Brooks continued calling names, but Bolanle’s focus had already drifted.

Her mind replayed her introduction over and over.

Did I sound stupid?

Did they hear my accent too much?

Did I stand too long?

Did I look nervous?

Her thoughts never stayed quiet for long.

That was the problem.

---

Then she felt it.

Eyes.

Watching her again.

From the far side of the classroom.

Three girls sat together like a unit.

The center one leaned slightly forward, resting her chin on her hand like she owned the room.

Gwen Harper.

Perfect posture. Sharp gaze. Controlled smile.

Next to her, a girl with heavy makeup whispered something into her ear, trying not to laugh.

Michelle Reed.

And beside them, quieter—but with a phone already tilted slightly upward like she was ready—

Lilian Cross.

The kind of girl who didn’t start drama.

She recorded it.

Gwen’s eyes stayed locked on Bolanle for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then she leaned back and smirked.

Michelle followed her gaze.

“Oh…” Michelle mouthed silently, like she had just spotted something entertaining.

Lilian subtly angled her phone downward.

Recording.

---

Bolanle didn’t notice at first.

Or maybe she did.

But she didn’t want to believe it.

Nia, however, noticed immediately.

Her expression changed.

“Don’t look over there,” she whispered under her breath.

Bolanle frowned slightly. “Why?”

Diego answered instead, voice low. “Because that’s Gwen Harper’s table.”

That name carried something without even needing explanation.

Nia added quietly, “She likes attention. And problems.”

Bolanle turned her head slightly—

Nia quickly stopped her. “I said don’t look.”

Too late.

Bolanle’s eyes met Gwen’s.

For a second.

Just a second.

Gwen smiled.

But it wasn’t warm.

It was measured.

Like she had already decided something about Bolanle.

Then she whispered something to Michelle.

Michelle laughed softly, covering her mouth.

Lilian kept filming.

Bolanle quickly looked away, her stomach tightening.

Something about that interaction felt wrong.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

Just… intentional.

---

Professor Brooks clapped her hands lightly.

“Alright, thank you everyone. We will continue properly tomorrow.”

Students started packing up.

The room became noisy again.

Movement. Chairs scraping. Conversations restarting.

Normal chaos.

But Bolanle didn’t feel normal.

Nia stood first. “Come on.”

Bolanle slowly stood too.

Diego gathered his things.

As they walked toward the exit, Gwen’s group also stood.

And as Bolanle passed their row—

Michelle leaned slightly into Gwen.

“New girl looks scared already,” she whispered.

Gwen didn’t look at Bolanle when she replied.

But her voice carried.

“Good.”

Bolanle heard it.

Her steps slowed for half a second.

Nia noticed immediately.

She grabbed Bolanle’s arm gently. “Ignore them.”

Bolanle forced herself to keep walking.

But her chest felt heavier now.

Like something had been placed there without permission.

---

Outside the classroom, the hallway felt colder again.

Students rushed past.

Life continued normally.

But Bolanle felt like she had stepped into something she didn’t fully understand yet.

Nia exhaled. “First day done. That wasn’t too bad.”

Diego raised an eyebrow. “You and I have different definitions of ‘not bad.’”

Nia rolled her eyes.

But Bolanle wasn’t listening.

Her mind kept replaying Gwen’s smile.

Calm. Controlled. Certain.

Like Bolanle was already a target.

And she didn’t even know why yet.

Diego noticed her silence.

“You’ll get used to people like that,” he said quietly.

Bolanle looked at him.

“People like what?”

He hesitated.

“People who decide they don’t like you before you even speak properly.”

That sentence landed deeper than expected.

Nia frowned. “Diego don’t say it like that.”

But it was already said.

And Bolanle understood.

Too clearly.

---

As they walked toward the exit, Bolanle felt her phone vibrate in her bag.

She ignored it.

Her hands were still slightly shaking.

Not enough for anyone to notice.

But enough for her to feel it.

Outside the building, the wind hit her again.

Cold.

Real.

Unforgiving.

She looked back at the entrance of Westbridge Community College.

Something told her

Today was not the hard part.

Today was the beginning of the hard part.

And somewhere inside the building

Gwen Harper was still watching her through the glass.

Smiling.