Have you ever had someone walk into your life and suddenly you're standing in a room you forgot existed? A room you'd locked up so long ago you didn't even remember turning the key. That's what happened today. And I still don't know what to make of it.
Rachel is passed out again. Her breathing fills the room—slow, steady, the sound of someone who's checked out completely. So I unpack.
Clothes into the closet, folded the way my mother taught me. Toothbrush in the bathroom, shoes lined up like soldiers. And then the books. Stack after stack of psychology texts, hauled all the way from home because I couldn't bear to leave them behind.
That's when I notice her shelf.
A few novels, wedged in like afterthoughts. Some look old—really old, the kind of old that comes from being read too many times, not from sitting pretty. Yellowed pages. Cracked spines. I pull out the thickest one.
Crime and Punishment. Dostoevsky.
I run my fingers over the worn edges. The rest is a mix—Hemingway, Poe, a few mystery novels with faded covers. But this one. This one has been carried around, stayed up late with, probably dog-eared and underlined by someone who couldn't let go.
I glance at the girl on the bed. Short dark hair splayed across the pillow. Black long sleeves, even in sleep. The tattoo curling up her neck like smoke.
Maybe she's not what she seems.
I shake it off and keep unpacking. When everything's in its place, I sit at my desk and pull out this journal. The room is quiet—that fragile kind of quiet, like glass. I can hear my pen scratching against paper. A good sound. Familiar.
And then—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Loud. Heavy. The kind that means business.
"Coming."
I set down the pen. Walk to the door. Open it.
A guy—a few years older than me, maybe.
He's tall—taller than I expected, taller than the doorframe seems to want to accommodate. Dark jacket, dark pants, the kind of outfit that doesn't ask for attention. His hair is curly, longer than most guys wear it, but well-kept—shiny, the kind of shiny that comes from actually caring, not from luck. It falls in loose coils around his temples, and there's something almost sculptural about the way it catches the dim hallway light.
But it's his eyes that get me.
Deep brown. Not just brown—warm brown, the kind with gold flecks that you only notice if you're close enough to be swallowed by them. And I am close. Too close. He's looking at me with those eyes, and I feel something in my chest lurch—not a crush, nothing so simple. Sharper. Deeper. Like a muscle I didn't know I had just seized up without permission.
And then my brain does this thing. This terrifying, inexplicable thing.
Flashes. Images. A split second of something I can't grab onto—a room I don't recognize, a voice I can't place, a feeling of falling or flying or both—and then it's gone. But the fear lingers, prickling up my spine like a trail of ants.
My hand tightens on the door handle. White-knuckle tight. I'm trying to breathe, trying to look normal, but my face is doing something I'm not in control of. I can feel it—the wrongness of my expression, the way my eyes have gone wide, the way my mouth is slightly open like I've forgotten how to close it.
He tilts his head. Studies me. There's no impatience in his gaze, no annoyance—just curiosity, quiet and focused, like I'm a book he's thinking about opening.
"You okay?" His voice is low. Calm. "Can I come in?"
Right. Words. I remember words.
"Sorry," I hear myself say. The voice isn't mine—it's thinner, higher, the voice of someone who's just been caught at something. "I was just... thinking. Yeah. Come in."
I step aside, and he moves past me. There's a scent that comes with him—something clean and subtle, not cologne exactly, more like soap and air and the faintest hint of something woodsy. He crosses the room in a few easy strides, and I watch him do it, watch the way he moves, unhurried.
"Is Rachel here?" he asks.
I point toward the bed—toward the lump of blankets and dark hair that hasn't stirred through this entire interaction. He nods once, then looks at me.
"Can I see her?"
"Yeah. Sure." I'm nodding too much, I realize. Stop nodding. "I mean—you're her boyfriend, right? So yeah. But she might still be out. She's been out for a while."
I don't know what I'm saying. The words just tumble out while my brain is stuck on replay, trying to figure out why this stranger made my body betray me.
Guys aren't supposed to be in the girls' dorm. That's a rule—a real one, printed somewhere in the handbook I skimmed during orientation. But my brain is static right now, fuzzy and useless, and the part of me that should care is just... not answering.
He walks to the chair by my desk. Lowers himself into it. And then he just... looks at her.
A quick scan. A glance. Like he's checking a box—Rachel: present, unconscious, noted—and then his eyes move on. That's it. No concern softening his features. No furrowed brow. No leaning in to check if she's breathing okay. Nothing.
I perch on the edge of my bed, and the room fills with something thick and strange—static before a storm, the kind of quiet that makes you want to fill it with words even if you don't know what to say.
He breaks the silence first.
"I'm Alex."
"Hannah."
He says it back, quietly—"Hannah"—like he's tasting it. Then: "Freshman?"
I nod.
He glances at the bookshelf behind me. At the stacks of psychology texts, the titles facing out like I arranged them that way on purpose. Which I did, but still.
"You into psychology?"
I blink. "How did you—"
"The books." A small smile. Just a flicker, there and gone. "Kind of a giveaway."
"Oh." I feel stupid. "Right."
There's a pause. I don't know what to do with my hands. They're in my lap, then on my knees, then back in my lap. I settle for gripping the edge of the mattress.
"Are you hungry?" The question bursts out of nowhere. "I have cookies—homemade, from home. They're on the desk if you want—"
He doesn't even look at the desk.
Instead, he leans forward. Slow. Deliberate. The chair creaks under the shift of his weight, and suddenly he's closer than he was a second ago—close enough that I can see the individual lashes framing those brown eyes, close enough that I can smell that clean scent again, sharper now. His gaze locks onto mine, and I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but sit there while he studies my face like he's reading something private.
"Are you scared of me?" he asks.
The question is quiet. Careful. There's no threat in it—just curiosity, the same curiosity he had at the door. But it makes my stomach drop anyway.
"What? No." The words come too fast, too high. "Why would I be scared?"
He holds my gaze another beat. Two. Then he leans back, and the tension in the room loosens, just a little.
"Okay." He stands. "I should go."
I should be relieved. But all I feel is confused. He came here for Rachel—that's what he said, that's why he's here. And yet he barely looked at her. Didn't touch her. Didn't ask how she was, when she'd be awake, if she'd been okay. Nothing. Just scanned the room, asked me weird questions, and now he's leaving.
He pauses at the door. Turns back.
"Give me your number."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Your number." He's already pulling out his phone. "In case I can't reach Rachel."
"In case you—" I stop. Shake my head. "Why would you need to reach me?"
He doesn't answer. Just holds the phone out, waiting.
I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's the eyes. Maybe it's the way he asked—not demanding, just... certain. Like he already knew I'd say yes. I rattle off the numbers, and he types them in, face blank, then pockets the phone.
"Thanks." He pulls the door open. "See you around, Hannah."
And then he's gone. Door clicks shut behind him. No goodbye. No "nice to meet you." Just... gone.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the closed door.
That night, I can't sleep.
I'm in bed, washed up and ready to crash, but my brain won't shut up. My dad—the way he looked at me before he left, worried and trying to hide it. My mother, how she used to run her fingers through my hair when I was small, humming until I drifted off. Alex. The way he looked at me like he was figuring me out.
Rachel breathes evenly in the other bed. Slow. Peaceful. The sound reminds me I'm not home anymore. That this is real. That I'm here now, with this girl, starting this life.
I turn toward the window. Through the glass, the sky spills stars—so many of them, scattered like salt. I used to stare at stars like this when I was little, lying in the backyard, imagining all the places I'd go, all the people I'd become.
Eventually, I fall asleep.
I wake to the door opening.
Sunlight. And Rachel—yesterday's ghost—gliding out of the bathroom like nothing happened.
She's changed. White off-the-shoulder top. Tight ripped jeans. Her hair—a disaster zone last night—falls in soft waves. Makeup. Perfume, flowery and strong.
She sees me staring and plops down on the edge of my bed like it's the most natural thing.
"Hello, how are you, sweetheart." Warm. Almost too warm. "You have a good night?"
"Uh. Yep."
"I'm gonna grab breakfast. You wanna come?"
"I can't. I have class. Psych intro."
She nods. "Cool, cool."
I glance at the bookshelf. "Those your books? Dostoevsky, Hemingway..."
"Eh. I read sometimes." She waves it off.
I hesitate. "Your boyfriend came by last night. Alex. He called a bunch, but you didn't pick up, so he—"
I stop. Because the truth is, he barely looked at her. And I don't know how to say that without it sounding weird.
But Rachel doesn't ask. She just says, "Okay. I know."
That's it. No smile. No "aw, that's sweet." Just I know.
I stare at her. That's not how you react when your boyfriend checks on you. That's not even close.
"I might be back late tonight," she says, standing. "Don't wait up."
And then she's gone too. Just like Alex. Out the door, no looking back.