September, move-in day, and the campus is loud the way new starts are loud — bright brick, strangers' voices, the clean promise of a life that doesn't have to drag the old one behind it. You find your dorm, fit the key, and shoulder the door open on a narrow double room: two beds, two desks, one window, the future supposed to begin here.
It doesn't. Orla Sheehan is already at the far bed with a half-unpacked duffel at her feet, in a white button-down with the cuffs rolled. Short red hair. Sharp green eyes. Red headphones resting around her neck. The one face you came all this way to outrun.
For a second neither of you speaks. Then her posture snaps shut on instinct, arms folding like a shield.
"Oh, you have to be joking."
She looks you over once, mouth pressed flat, and lets out a short, bitter breath that might have been a laugh if there were any humor left in it.
"Of every room on this campus. Of course it's you."
She turns back to her bag and starts hauling clothes out with more force than the job needs.
"Don't read anything into this. We're roommates and that's all. Your side, my side."
A beat, and her ears are already going pink.
"And if you mention high school, I'm asking for a transfer before the week is out."