"We were just—" one of them started.
"Leaving," Ivy finished. "You were just leaving."
They left.
Ivy watched them go, then turned to me. Her expression shifted — still sharp, but softer underneath.
"Come on," she said, jerking her head toward our room. "You look like you need to sit down."
I followed her inside. The door clicked shut behind us, and the noise of the hallway faded to a murmur.
Our room was small — two beds, two desks, a window that looked out over the back courtyard. Ivy's side was organized chaos: books stacked in precarious towers, a corkboard covered in class schedules and photos from home. My side was sparse. I hadn't had the energy to decorate.
I sank onto my bed. Let my bag slide to the floor.
"Ignore them," Ivy said, dropping onto her own mattress. "They're bored and stupid and looking for something to feel superior about."
"I know."
"You're not ignoring them."
"I am."
"You're not." She pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged, watching me with those sharp eyes that saw too much. "You're cataloging. Filing it away somewhere. Pretending it doesn't hurt when it absolutely does."
I didn't have the energy to argue. She was right. She usually was.
"Lumi." Her voice softened. Just a fraction, but I heard it. "Are you okay? And don't give me 'fine' or 'managing' or any of that deflection bullshit. I'm asking for real. Are you okay?"
The question sat between us, heavy and honest.
I thought about lying. It would be easier — a quick reassurance, a change of subject, the comfortable fiction that I had everything under control.
But this was Ivy. She'd shut down gossip for me. She'd covered for me when I stumbled into the room at 3 AM smelling like antiseptic. She'd asked hard questions and accepted non-answers and never once made me feel like a burden.
She deserved the truth. Or as much of it as I could give.
"No," I admitted. "I'm not okay."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look surprised.
"But I'm still standing," I continued. "Still putting one foot in front of the other."
"Is that enough?"
"It has to be. For now."
Ivy was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"Good enough," she paused, then added: "But if you need something — if it gets to be too much — you tell me. Yeah? Don't just disappear into that building and forget you have a life out here."
"I won't."
"Promise."
"I promise."
She held my gaze for a long moment, measuring. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she nodded again and reached for her laptop.
