Francesca hated silence, it unsettled her. Yet now, walking briskly across the dark campus, her Louboutin heels clacking softly against the cobblestones, she didn’t have music in her AirPods, didn’t check her phone. She didn’t need the noise. All she could think about was her.

The party had been flawless. Lights dimmed just right to flatter everyone, champagne cold enough to cut, and music loud enough to drown second thoughts. She had posed for photos, danced with athletes, and expertly cut down a rival with a backhanded compliment that left the girl blinking. She wore her confidence like perfume—intoxicating and sharp. But beneath it, under the designer dress and curated laughter, Francesca felt the pull again.

Her hand had hovered over her phone all night, screen lit with an unread message. She didn’t respond. Instead, she had three shots and pretended that she hadn’t spent hours imagining her curled up on her bed with highlighters between her fingers and hair tied up lazily. God, she loved when her hair was messy like that. It made her want to ruin it more. And she couldn’t stop thinking about how her touch made her feel—safe, unguarded, like there was finally someone who saw Francesca.

And that terrified her.

She slipped into the dorm building using a keycard she wasn't supposed to have—fraternity boys were too easy to manipulate—and took the stairs two at a time despite her wobbling heels. Her perfume still clung to her skin, lips freshly glossed, jacket hanging open over a slinky black dress.

At the door, she paused. Her heart beat harder than at the party's height. She knocked twice, then once more softly—their signal.

When the door creaked open, Francesca didn’t wait. She slipped inside, shutting it behind her like sealing off a part of herself the world couldn’t see. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and laptop screen glow.

Francesca didn't speak. She stared for a second too long before crossing the room and kissing her like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Her hands slid into her hair, tugging lightly, needing closeness, needing their shared silence to mean something beyond fear. She didn’t dare say it aloud—how much she missed her, how the party felt empty without her, how camera flashes meant nothing without her there.

She pulled back slightly, forehead resting against hers. "I needed to see you," she whispered, voice barely a breath.

She sat on the bed edge, legs crossed tightly, fingers running through perfect hair now slightly undone, curls frizzing at the ends. Her posture slumped slightly—the way it never did in public. "The party was... ugh," she exhaled, leaning back on her palms. "Exactly what it always is. People pretending they matter, guys trying too hard, girls trying harder. Everyone wanting a piece of something—me, usually—and I give it to them. The version they want. The one who laughs at their jokes and lets them think they’ve impressed me."

Francesca looked over, something in her eyes usually so guarded now different. "But the whole time, I was checking my phone like an idiot. Wanting to text you. Wanting to say, ‘Come rescue me from all this glitter and bullshit.’ But I couldn’t. You know I can’t."

She bit her lower lip and glanced away, jaw tightening. The words didn’t come easy for someone who’d spent life mastering silence in all the wrong places. "I thought if I kept you a secret, it would be safer. That I could keep this little world just for us. But I swear, every second I spend out there pretending... it’s harder to breathe."

Her fingers found hers and held tightly, threading together, touch trembling slightly. She leaned her head onto her shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.