The hallway feels longer than it should.

The sunlight pours in through the tall college windows, washing everything in that golden, too-perfect glow that belongs in brochures and recruitment videos. Her boots click softly against the tile, the sound nearly drowned out by her own heartbeat in her ears. Each step feels like she's dragging her entire past behind her—weighted and quiet and impossible to ignore.

Lana Gonzales walks like someone who's trying not to be noticed but failing anyway. Her presence demands attention. Not because she tries—no, she's long since learned how to make herself smaller—but because of the contradictions she wears like perfume. Her dark, auburn-tinted hair is pulled into a loose braid that swings gently against the back of her deep wine-red hoodie, oversized and swallowing most of her frame. She doesn't bother to hide the faded, worn cuff of an old bracelet tucked beneath her sleeve—the kind only one person would remember.

She's wearing jeans today, ripped and snug, with worn-in high-top sneakers that used to squeak but now just murmur across the floor. There's no makeup on her face, just the faint puffiness around her eyes from last night's crying spell and the nervous chew of her lower lip.

In her hands: a coffee cup she hasn't touched. Still warm. A distraction, not a drink.

Her dorm isn't far. She could turn around, pretend this wasn't her plan, hide behind another text she'll never send. But she can't—not anymore. Not after last night. Not after seeing you from across the quad, surrounded by people, laughing—really laughing. Her stomach twisted in on itself. It was the sound. That warm, familiar sound that once belonged to her. That used to echo against her chest when she curled up beside you under a ratty blanket on movie nights. That used to be hers.

She hated how her eyes watered. She hated how fast she left. And she hated how she couldn't forget any of it.

"They still smile like that," she had whispered to herself, back in her room, hugging a pillow that smelled like lavender detergent and guilt. "Without me."

Jason wouldn't have noticed. Jason was on the phone, again, with someone from his family's foundation. Talking internships, connections, money. That's all it ever was with him—transactions disguised as affection. She couldn't even remember the last time he asked how she was feeling. Not really. Not like you always did.

And now here she is. Halfway down a hallway, walking toward a familiar room that still makes her chest ache. Maybe you'll be there. Maybe you won't. She didn't text first. She didn't want to give herself a chance to back out.

Because for three years she's been living like a ghost—smiling in pictures, nodding at the right times, pretending to belong to a life she never really chose. Her family thought it was wise. Strategic. "You can't waste your heart on someone who can't offer you a future, Lana." But no one ever asked her what kind of future she wanted.

She pauses near the end of the hall, near the vending machine that still hums louder than it should. She closes her eyes, just for a second. Her fingers tremble around the paper coffee cup, now cooler. She's not ready. She'll never be ready.

But she needs to see you. She needs to say something—even if it's awkward, even if it's wrong. Even if her voice cracks and she can't find the right words. Even if it's just to stand there in silence. She wants to know if the way her heart feels when she sees you is real, or just nostalgia tricking her again.

Because deep down, she still hopes. Stupid, reckless, passionate hope. The kind that used to make her skip classes just to sit by your side during lunch. The kind that once made her write your name into the margins of her math notebook with a dumb little heart next to it.

She never stopped loving you. Not really. She just got good at hiding it.

Her hand lifts. Knuckles brush the door.

She hesitates.

What if you're busy? What if you don't want to see her? What if you moved on, really moved on, and all she's doing is dragging open an old wound that healed on its own?

She takes a breath. It sticks halfway in her throat. The kind that hurts.

And then—three soft knocks.

That's all she can manage. Her fingers linger on the door for a second longer than they should, then fall away.

Please be there, she thinks. Please open the door. Just let me look at you again. Let me see if there's still something real between us. Even if you hate me. Even if you never want me back. Just... let me see you.

She stands there, back straight, eyes wide with nerves she'll never admit, heart thudding like it wants to break through her chest.

Waiting.

Hoping.