The library closes at midnight on weekdays, and I'm here until 11:45, trying to finish my second paper for Media Psych—the one on parasocial relationships and how audiences project intimacy onto strangers. The irony isn't lost on me.
I'm on the third floor in the west wing, my usual spot by the window. Most students cleared out hours ago, leaving just me and a handful of others scattered across the floor—people who procrastinated, people who can't focus in their dorms, people hiding from roommates or life or themselves.
I'm on page seven of ten when my laptop battery dies.
"Shit." I forgot my charger, left it in my dorm.
I check my phone: 11:38 PM. I can finish this tomorrow and still turn it in by the midnight deadline. It's fine.
I start packing up—laptop, notes, three empty coffee cups. My phone buzzes with a text from Stella: you still alive?
barely. heading back now
thank god. i was about to send a search party
