Saturday hits and campus is a madhouse. Move-in day at UCLA feels like someone kicked an anthill. Parents are everywhere, wrestling with suitcases and futons, freshmen trying (and failing) to look unfazed. RAs shouting into the chaos with clipboards and strained smiles. The August heat is oppressive, even for LA. Everyone's sweating through their carefully chosen first-day outfits.
Mom's determined to help me settle in, and honestly, I let her. Sometimes surrender is the easiest way out. She's been chirping about coordinating sheets with my comforter since we left Sacramento.
My dorm is in Rieber Hall, fifth floor. The elevator is packed, smells like cardboard boxes and nervous energy. Someone's dad is complaining about the lack of parking. Someone's mom is crying already.
My roommate, Riley, is already there when we finally squeeze through the door. She's tall, Black, with box braids pulled into a high ponytail and a lineup of color-coded textbooks already glinting on her desk. Pre-med, of course. Within minutes, she's already pinned up an anatomy poster and made me feel like I'm rooming with someone who came out of the womb with a five-year plan.
The room is small. Two twin beds, two desks, one window overlooking the courtyard. The walls are that institutional beige that screams temporary.
"Communications, right?" she asks, mid-poster hang. Her voice is bright, confident.
"Yeah."
"My cousin does social media for a living. Says it's brutal."
I just nod, unpacking a box of clothes. "Probably."
She plops down on her bed, which is already made with navy sheets and about fifteen throw pillows. Gives me an appraising look. "Nervous?"
"A little."
"Same." She grins, and it's genuine. "But hey, we're here. We made it."
Mom's at the door, phone out, determined to document every awkward moment for posterity. "Avery, stand next to your desk. Riley, you too. Let me get one of you both."
We oblige. I force a smile that feels almost real.
By the time Mom finally hugs me goodbye, it's nearly lunchtime. She holds on a beat too long, her perfume overwhelming. "You're going to do amazing things here," she whispers.
I nod against her shoulder. "Thanks, Mom."
"Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
She leaves, and the room feels bigger. Emptier.
Riley and I grab food at the dining hall, which is packed with the same nervous energy as everywhere else. The food is cafeteria standard: options that look better than they taste. Where everyone's locked in that weird first-day patter: where are you from, what's your major, did you play a sport, blah blah blah.
I'm halfway through a burrito that tastes vaguely like regret when I see him.
Liam.
He's across the quad, in a huddle of guys who look like they're auditioning for a beer commercial. Backwards caps, new sneakers, loud laughs that carry across the space. His hair is longer than it was in June. He looks comfortable, settled, like he belongs here.
My heart skips. Traitor.
Riley clocks the situation immediately. She's perceptive. "Friend of yours?"
"More like the opposite."
She raises an eyebrow. "Ex?"
"Yeah."
She makes a sympathetic face, sets down her fork. "Gotta love the odds."
"Right?"
Liam spots me. For a split second, he looks thrown. His smile falters. But then it snaps back into place, practiced and easy. He says something to his crew and heads over, weaving through the crowds of students.
No, please, not now.
Riley leans in, her voice low. "Want me to rescue you? I can fake an emergency."
"It's fine," I lie. My stomach is in knots.
He stops just a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, wearing that same cocky smile I used to find charming. Now it just looks rehearsed.
"Avery. Hey."
"Liam."
His eyes flick to Riley, back to me. Assessing. "Didn't expect to see you today."
"It's move-in."
"Yeah. Makes sense." He shifts his weight, suddenly less confident. "How's it going?"
"Fine."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The silence feels like wet cement. Heavy and setting fast.
He rubs his neck, a nervous habit I remember too well. "I just... wanted to say—"
"Don't."
He looks confused. "Don't what?"
"Don't apologize. Don't explain. Don't pretend this is going to be some friendly thing."
His jaw tightens. "I'm trying to be decent."
"You missed your chance when you hooked up with my sister."
Riley lets out a low whistle.
Liam's face goes red, visible even with his tan. "That's not—"
"Don't care." I grab my tray, stand up. The plastic scrapes against the table. "Have a good year."
I walk away before he can say another word. My legs feel shaky but I keep moving, through the dining hall, out into the quad where the sun is blinding.
Riley jogs to catch up. "Holy shit. That was cold."
I wish I could feel as tough as I sounded. My hands are shaking. I can feel his eyes on my back.
But I keep it together.
"He deserved it," Riley says as we walk back toward the dorms. "Whatever he did, he deserved that."
"He really did."
That night, I'm doomscrolling when Madison's story pops up. Her and Liam, golden hour perfect, the light making them look like they're in a movie. Her laughter staged, his arm around her like they're selling something. Caption: my favorite person 💕
I wait for the old ache to hit.
It doesn't.
I take a quick screenshot, stash it in a folder labeled "Receipts." Then I move on.
Parker's profile is still private, my follow request still floating in limbo. That's fine. I can wait. Patience is part of the game.
I pull up his class schedule. It's public information on the department website. Intro to Media Psychology, Monday and Wednesday at 10 AM. I add it to my calendar, set a reminder.
A couple days later, Madison's at it again. My phone buzzes while Riley and I are trying to figure out our shower schedules.
Madison: heard you ran into liam
Me: yep
Madison: he said you were rude
Me: cool
Madison: grow up, avery
I leave her on read. Go back to organizing my desk.
Madison: you can't avoid us forever
Me: not trying to
Madison: then why are you being like this
Me: i'm not
Madison: bullshit
I set my phone aside, face down. She calls. Decline. Calls again. Decline.
Madison: answer your damn phone
Me: no
Madison: what's with you
Me: nothing
Madison: you're cold. weird.
Me: i'm busy, madison
Madison: with what
Me: school
Madison: you haven't even started
Me: prepping. unlike some people
Madison: you're acting weird
Me: you've mentioned
Madison: because it's true
I ignore her. She sends a voice message. I don't bother playing it. Delete it immediately.
Then she sends a photo: her and Liam in his dorm, tangled on his bed, both grinning like this is some kind of contest. The image makes my stomach turn, but not from heartbreak. From disgust at how desperate it is.
Caption: miss you already 😘
She wants to get under my skin. Wants me to crack, to cry, to prove I'm still broken.
I zoom in instead, studying the image clinically. Messy sheets, textbooks scattered on the floor, some band poster on the wall. And there, on his desk, a picture frame turned facedown.
I know what's in there.
A photo of us, from what feels like a different lifetime. Graduation day, both of us smiling like we had a future.
He didn't toss it. Can't quite commit to erasing me completely.
I say nothing.
Instead, I open my notes app and update my list.
Game Plan:
Make him notice me (done) Step into his world (first class, Monday) Show I'm more than a kid Make him want me Let Liam see it
One more:
Let Madison realize she never had the upper hand
My phone buzzes again. Riley glances over from her bed. "Your sister?"
"Yeah."
"She always this intense?"
"Pretty much."
Madison: you're seriously not going to answer?
Me: nope
Madison: pathetic
Me: if you say so
Madison: he doesn't even think about you anymore
Me: good for both of us
Madison: he's moved on
Me: so have i
Madison: to what? you're alone
I actually smile. Riley sees it, raises her eyebrows.
Me: enjoy him while he lasts, madison
Madison: what does that mean
Me: nothing. just, college boys aren't famous for loyalty
Madison: he's not leaving
Me: okay
Madison: what is your problem
Me: no problem. just living my life
Madison: liar
Me: think what you want
Madison: you're still obsessed
Me: i'm really not
Madison: then stop being such a bitch
Me: you're the one blowing up my phone, madison
She goes silent.
I wait. Five minutes, ten. Riley's watching me now, curious but not prying.
Finally, her last word:
Madison: whatever. stay bitter
I don't answer.
I just put my phone down and check Parker's profile on a whim.
And there it is. He accepted my follow.
My pulse jumps. My breath catches.
I scroll his feed. Books stacked on a desk. A campus sunset, all purple and orange. A conference photo, him shaking hands with someone important-looking. No selfies, nothing personal, captions barely longer than a sigh.
He keeps things close. Guarded. That just means I'll have to work harder.
I flip through my own photos, deleting anything too staged, too high school. The duck-face selfies, the obviously filtered beach photos. I want something real. Something that says I'm more than what he thinks.
I prune my feed, strip away the fake, keep what matters. Travel photos. Books. Coffee shops. Moments that feel authentic even if they weren't entirely.
Then I post: my desk, books stacked beside my laptop, coffee in a UCLA mug.
Caption: new chapter.
No fluff. No hashtags. No emojis.
The likes start trickling in. Zoey's first, naturally.
Zoey: LOOK AT YOU ALL SCHOLARLY
I laugh out loud. Riley glances over, smiling.
And then I see it: Ethan Parker likes my post.
My heart stumbles. Stops. Restarts.
Riley notices my expression. "You good?"
"Yeah," I say, trying to sound casual. "Just... yeah."
It might not mean much. Probably doesn't. Just a polite acknowledgment from a professor to a new student.
But it's a start.
And right now, that's enough.