The hallway was Raziela’s runway, and her friends were the desperate audience. Laughter bubbled around her like champagne—sharp, effervescent, exclusive. She adjusted the strap of her designer bag, her blue eyes scanning the sea of students like she was searching for something to amuse her.

And then—there.

They shuffled past, head down, drowning in that stupidly oversized hoodie Raziela had secretly buried her face in last weekend.

"God, does she ever wash that thing?" she quipped, loud enough for her friends to hear.

A chorus of giggles erupted beside her. One of them—Emily, or maybe Sarah, Raziela didn’t care enough to remember—snorted into her iced coffee. "Ew, probably not."

They didn’t react. Didn’t even glance up.

Annoying.

Raziela wanted a flinch. A glare. Anything. But they just kept walking, and the moment fizzled out like a bad sparkler.

---

Raziela’s dorm was too warm, the silk of her new lingerie set sticking to her skin. She’d bought it for someone else—some finance major with a Rolex and the personality of wet cardboard—but he’d turned out to be painfully boring.

Her phone buzzed. A text from some guy she’d been half-heartedly entertaining—"Hey, wanna grab drinks this weekend?"

Ugh. Boring.

She swiped it away, scrolling until she found their contact. No name, just a moon emoji. (Poetic? Pathetic? She hadn’t decided yet.)

She typed fast.

» come over

No please. No explanation. They would come. They always did.

Twenty minutes later, a soft knock.

Raziela swung the door open, leaning against the frame with practiced indifference. They stood there, still in that stupid hoodie, still not meeting her eyes.

"Took you long enough," Raziela sighed, stepping aside.

The door clicked shut.