“Uh,” I mutter, tapping the screen of my phone. The lock screen lights up, revealing a shirtless guy in a Ghostface mask, caught mid-stride with a machete in hand—equal parts horror and thirst trap, frozen in pure chaotic kink. I avert my eyes from the image and glance at the clock at the top of the screen instead.
7:43 a.m.
“About forty-five minutes, why?” I ask, drawing out the word.
“I was thinking a French braid would look cute and that shit takes a minute,” she says as she toys with a strand of my hair.
I was starting to regret letting her do my hair, but there was no turning back now. “Fine, but hurry. You’re cutting into coffee time,” I say as she begins the braid.
“I’ll be quick. I promise,” she reassures me.
Thankfully, she kept to her word. She was quick. Severalhair-pullingminutes later, Tessa spins the chair around so that I am facing her and fluffs her work before reaching for the concealer. “It’s a good thing we share a similar skin tone,” she muses as she applies it to my under eyes.
It takes a couple of coats totrulyhide the deep-set bags, but when she is finally done, I look as normal as can be. The purple bruising still pokes through the layers, but not enough that anyone will notice.
My hair definitely looks better and more contained now that it’s braided and no longer a frizzy mess. “Thanks, Tess,” I say warmly, turning away from my reflection.
“No problem, babe,” she replies, her lips curled into a bright smile, dimples and all. “You ready to go?”
I nod. Coffee was calling me by my full government name.
TWO
RAELYNN
It was justafter eight thirty when Tessa and I finally pulled into the Highland Avenue parking garage, and closer to eight forty-five by the time we stepped into the heart of campus. The university is already wide awake—buzzing, crowded, and pulsing with that chaotic energy unique to the start of a new semester.
That early-semester buzz hangs thick in the air. Cars crawl through the traffic loop like they are wading through syrup, hazard lights blinking in frustration. Students weave between bumpers and each other, book bags thumping against their spines like metronomes, iced coffees gripped like lifelines, the plastic sweating in the rising heat. The sidewalks are flooded with motion—everyone headed somewhere, but most look like they aren’t entirely sure where that is.
The real chaos comes from the freshmen and transfers—faces full of hope and confusion, their confidence already cracking under the weight of real schedules and actual campus sprawl. Some cling to printed maps as if they are sacred texts. Others walk in hesitant zigzags, eyes glued to campus apps, trying to make the little blue dot point them in the right direction. A few have already surrendered and huddled at the temporary infobooths scattered across the quad, looking for someone,anyone, to point them in the right direction.
I remember that feeling all too well. That overwhelming cocktail of excitement and dread, adrenaline tangled with uncertainty. Everything felt too big, too fast, and way too easy to mess up. I spent my first week terrified I’d end up in the wrong class or miss a building entirely.
It’s nostalgic now… in that mildly traumatic,I-survived-so-it’s-finekind of way.
Sometimes I wonder what my parents would think if they could see me now?—
my last year of school, inching toward a career in law enforcement, I never got the chance to tell them about.
I still catch myself imagining their reactions, the advice they might’ve given, the pride I hope they would’ve felt.
It’s a quiet ache, imagining the words I never said and the moments that never came.
Wistfulness is all I have of it now, those almost-memories sitting in the spaces where real ones should’ve been.
I take a long sip from my Dutch Bros, draining the rest of the crafted blend of hazelnut and Irish cream, and toss the cup into a nearby trash receptacle. “I will see you later, Tess,” I say, briefly turning towards her.
“We’re still on for lunch?” She takes another sip from her coffee.
“Of course. I will probably extend an invite to the others, though.”
“I figured you would,” she says, her lips curling into a smile.
“I’ll see you later, babes.” I smile in return and start towards the Koffler Building, where my Criminology class is held.
Palms stand at attention along the walkway, tall and sparse, tossing narrow shadows that miss you by inches. Beds of brittlebush and agave shoulder the paths, gravel raked into tidyripples around them. Bikes blur past in tight zips—thin tires whispering—while skateboard wheels chatter over expansion joints. Someone’s blasting indie pop from a Bluetooth speaker; another circle of students practices a clumsy hacky sack routine between backpacks.
I half-jog up the steps to the building, dodging a guy with headphones who’s somehow taking up the entire staircase. Reaching the lecture hall door, I grab the handle, yank it open, and slip inside as quietly as possible, though the creak of the hinge still sounds way too loud in the half-lit room.
