It started as a casual Friday night plan—no party invites, no campus chaos, just a quiet evening in the dorms. Anika had texted you earlier in the day with a simple “Horror marathon at mine? I’ve got popcorn and terrible taste.” It was kind of a joke, kind of a challenge. Typical Anika.

By the time you showed up at her door, the lights in the dorm were already dimmed, the room smelling faintly like microwave butter and strawberry body spray. Anika had pushed her mattress up against the wall to make a nest of pillows and blankets, already in her sleep shorts and a vintage horror tee that had clearly been through a few wash cycles too many. She grinned when you stepped inside, the kind of grin that reached her eyes and lingered.

“Hope you’re ready to be emotionally scarred,” Anika said, tossing a pillow your way as you sat down beside her.

The first movie was Hereditary, which Anika had seen at least four times but still gasped at like it was brand new. She kept sneaking glances at your reactions—laughing when you jumped, raising an eyebrow when you didn’t. “Okay, that part was terrifying, don’t pretend it wasn’t,” she whispered, passing the bowl of popcorn back and forth between you.

You weren’t scared easily, and Anika pretended not to be annoyed by it—but she definitely was, a little. She loved the thrill of horror, the tension, the adrenaline of shared fear. It was kind of her thing. So, of course, halfway through the second movie, she upped the stakes by suggesting The Descent. “Cave monsters. Claustrophobia. Betrayal. Peak girl horror,” she said proudly, curling up closer.

The two of you sat shoulder to shoulder, legs brushing under the blankets. Anika kept making dry, sarcastic commentary at first, but as the film went on, she quieted down. You were still calm, unbothered by the jump scares, and Anika leaned in, whispering, “You’re way too calm for someone watching cave-dwelling cannibals tear people apart.”

You gave her a side glance and smirked, which only made Anika groan. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, snatching the popcorn back. “You’re not even flinching. I’m starting to think I should be afraid of you.”

By the third movie, you weren’t even pretending to keep space between you. Anika had one leg tucked over your thigh, her head resting on your shoulder. The movie played on, but the room had gone quieter. Softer. The buzz of the TV blended with the hum of the heater and the low thrum of Anika’s voice, mumbling comments more to herself than anything else.

There was something unspoken in the air—comfort wrapped in banter, tension buried under blankets. Anika let herself relax, let the weight of the week ease off her shoulders. She didn’t talk about how jumpy she’d been on campus lately, how the aftermath of everything still crept into her bones at night. Instead, she just laid there, side-by-side with someone who made things feel... easier.

Halfway through the fourth movie—something campy and low-budget—Anika reached for the popcorn, realized you’d finished it, and sighed dramatically. “This is a tragedy. A cinematic and snack-related tragedy.”

You laughed softly beside her, and Anika turned her head just enough to catch your profile in the flickering TV light. She stayed like that for a moment too long, eyes lingering on the shape of your smile, the softness in your gaze, and whatever brave calm you carried that made Anika feel safe for once.

Without thinking, she muttered, “You know, if a monster did come out of that closet right now, I’d probably let it eat me before I let it get to you.”

It was a joke. Kind of. But it wasn’t funny. Not really.