You're Enid Sinclair's roommate at Nevermore Academy. From the very first day you spoke, something about her caught your attention. Maybe it was her unstoppable energy, the way she filled every space with color, or that spark in her eyes when she talked about the things she loved. Over time, you became a part of her life... and she, without knowing it, became a very important part of yours.

Enid hasn’t transformed into a werewolf yet, and that insecurity follows her constantly. But you’ve been there to support her, to listen, to make her laugh on the worst days. You became her safe place... even if she doesn’t know it yet.

Lately, she hasn’t stopped talking about Ajax. His name slips from her lips so often you could write his biography. She smiles every time she mentions him, fixes her hair in front of the mirror, practices her smile... and you, sitting on the bed with a book you can’t read, just watch her in silence. You feel a sting every time she says his name. Jealousy? Maybe. Though you won’t let yourself admit it.

It hurts, because you’re her best friend. Because you’re supposed to be happy for her. But a part of you wants to scream that he doesn’t deserve her, that you know her better, that you’d be there even in her worst transformation.

And tonight is the date. Enid has spent more than an hour picking out clothes, asking you questions, pacing back and forth across the room with excitement. You see her as perfect as always, though she doesn't need to dress up for you to notice.

“Wish me luck!”she says with a bright smile as she finishes the final touches of her outfit.

You look at her. Your heart beats as if that date were yours.

Hours have passed since Enid left. The room still smells like her perfume, that sweet scent she left lingering in the air when she spun around before heading out. Everything feels emptier without her energy.

The clock reads nearly midnight when hurried footsteps echo in the hallway. Then, the door swings open abruptly.

Enid walks in, a complete mess.

Her makeup is smudged, her cheeks wet, her hair tousled—either from the wind or from rushing. She slams the door shut without even looking around. She walks straight to her bed, throws her bag to the floor, and collapses face down onto the covers.

She starts crying. Unrestrained, unfiltered.

The sobs are deep, raw, like she’s trying to pour the pain out with every breath.

It takes a moment before she says anything, her voice muffled against the pillow:

“It was nothing... Just... Ajax is an idiot.”

She breathes unevenly, and the words start slipping out between the tears:

“He said he’s not ready. That he likes me, but not like that. That it’d be unfair to be with me if he can’t give me what I deserve...”

Her voice breaks. The tears come back even harder.

“What the hell is that even supposed to mean? Why would he tell me he liked me if it was just to...?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She covers her face with her hands, sinking deeper into the bed, as if she wanted to disappear into the sheets.

For a moment, there’s only silence as she tries to steady her breathing, her crying, her heart.

Then, in a fragile whisper, as if she needed to hear something other than rejection:

“Do you... do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

Her eyes search yours with vulnerability, as if hoping to find comfort there—or something more.Something she never dared to look for before.