Jess had dragged out a beanbag from under her bed, and Maya had already claimed the comfiest seat — a heap of mismatched pillows by the radiator. The radiator clinked and hissed like always, letting out little puffs of warmth that made the room smell vaguely like old metal and dust. Claire was poking around in her snack stash, tossing out options like a flight attendant offering peanuts or pretzels.

“Popcorn, Chex Mix, or… weird gummy frogs?”

“I vote popcorn,” I said, settling in on the floor with my back to Jess’s desk. The carpet underneath was rough on my hands, and someone had spilled something that still made one corner smell faintly like orange soda. “But not the burnt kind this time.”

“That was one time,” Maya shot back with a grin. “And technically Claire was in charge of the microwave.”

“Lies,” Claire muttered, tossing the gummy frogs at her. The bag made a soft thwack against Maya’s shoulder before bouncing off harmlessly.

By the time the opening credits of Clueless started rolling, the room smelled like buttery salt and cherry lip balm. The lights were off except for the soft, colored glow from Jess’s string lights and the TV screen. Alicia Silverstone appeared, all bright smiles and plaid skirts, babbling about fashion like it was the most important thing on Earth.

And somehow… I didn’t hate it.

I mean, it was kind of ridiculous. But the way Cher strutted through her closet app and complained about her “totally important” life? It was weirdly comforting. Familiar, even. Like the kind of story I’d roll my eyes at in public but secretly enjoy when no one was looking. Something soft and easy, like the smell of dryer sheets or the sound of rain through a window. Something that let your guard down without even asking.

Half an hour in, there was a scene where Cher did a full-on makeover on her friend Tai, and everyone cracked up when she dramatically held up a feather boa and said, “She’s like a Monet — from far away it’s okay, but up close it’s a big old mess!”

Without thinking, I giggled.
Like, an actual high-pitched, hand-over-my-mouth giggle.

The room went quiet.

Jess slowly turned toward me. “Did… did you just—?”

“I—” My throat closed up. “No. That wasn’t— I just laughed, okay?”

Maya blinked at me. “You’ve never laughed like that before.”

Claire raised her eyebrows, half-teasing, half-confused. “It was kind of cute, though. Honestly thought Jess made that sound.”

I felt my face go red, heat creeping up my ears. I pulled my hoodie strings tight, sinking deeper into the fabric like I could disappear into cotton. The collar scratched at my jaw. My whole skin felt too bright.

“I don’t know why I did that,” I muttered, suddenly wishing I’d sat behind the beanbag instead of in front of it. I curled my legs tighter under me, trying not to think about the way everyone had looked at me — not mean, just… surprised.

The movie kept playing, but I couldn’t concentrate. Not with the way my cheeks still burned, or how my body felt all wrong — not painful, just wrong.
Like someone had switched a dial inside me and forgot to switch it back.

****

The hallway was quiet by the time I got back to my dorm.
Just the distant sound of someone laughing two floors up, and the soft hum of a vending machine near the stairwell. The kind of stillness that made every footstep echo too loud on the tiled floor, every breath feel a little more exposed.

I shut the door gently behind me, not wanting to draw attention.
Not that anyone was watching — just a habit. The kind you pick up when you’re used to disappearing in crowds, or slipping through days without being noticed. My roommate wasn’t back yet. Probably still out with his team, or crashing in someone else’s room with a PlayStation and a bag of nachos.

Good.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed and stared at my hands.
Callused from practice. Faint Sharpie stains near the knuckle from doodling during lectures. Familiar hands. But tonight they felt like they didn’t quite belong to me. Like I was borrowing a version of myself I hadn’t signed off on.

That sound I made… that stupid giggle…
It wasn’t just embarrassing.
It didn’t feel like me.
At least not the version of me I thought I was.

I sat there for a minute, just breathing. Trying not to spiral.
Trying not to let the tight knot in my chest unravel into something I couldn’t pull back together.

Then I reached for the orange bottle on my desk.
It sat next to my alarm clock — red LED blinking 10:46 PM — and a stack of notes I hadn’t touched since Thursday. The label still had the pharmacy sticker — my name printed clean and clear.
Riley Whitlock.
“Take one daily for anxiety symptoms. May cause drowsiness.”

I hadn’t planned to take another one tonight.
But the knot in my chest was tightening again, and the room felt like it was closing in — the walls too close, the ceiling too low, like a shoebox with no lid.

I popped the cap and swallowed one dry.
No water. Just the bitter chalk of it catching at the back of my tongue.

Maybe it was all in my head.
Maybe I was just tired.

I laid back on my pillow, letting the ceiling blur.
It had a crack running through it that looked kind of like a lightning bolt. I used to think it was cool — like something out of a comic book, or maybe one of those old-school fantasy covers with wizards and dragons — but tonight it just looked like a split. A warning. A seam coming undone.

****

I must’ve dozed off for a while, because the next thing I heard was the click of the door handle and the squeak of old hinges.
That soft metallic chk of the lock turning, followed by a slight pause — like whoever it was wasn’t sure if they should come in yet.

“Yo, Whitlock. You asleep?”

It was Garrett — my roommate. He always called me by my last name like we were already on a team together. Maybe we were, technically, but we hadn’t really bonded. He was loud, laid-back, and the kind of guy who seemed to exist in a permanent state of stretching. Always cracking his knuckles, always leaning with his arms behind his head like he was posing for a soda commercial.

I stayed still, hoping he’d take the hint.
I let my breath slow. Focused on the rhythm of it. In, out. In, out.

He didn’t.

The light from the hallway cut across the room before the door closed again with a soft thunk. I heard the thud of his backpack hitting the floor and the soft fizz of a soda can opening. A brief shuffle of items on top of the mini fridge. Then the familiar whump of his body flopping onto his bed with the grace of a collapsing tent.

“You missed some good stuff at dinner,” he said between sips. “Someone launched mashed potatoes across the cafeteria. Nailed Coach in the back of the head. Legendary.”

I made a vague noise in response. Not a word — just a low “mm,” like I was halfway to sleep.
A sound that could mean leave me alone or I’m listening, barely. I wasn’t sure which I meant.

Garrett didn’t push it. He grabbed his remote and started flipping through channels on the tiny TV near his desk, volume low.
Nick at Nite fuzzed into life — maybe The Fresh Prince, or some rerun of Family Matters. I didn’t look.

I rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter.
The sheets had cooled while I’d been lying there, and now they felt like some half-hearted attempt at a shield. Not uncomfortable. Just not enough.

Part of me wanted to ask if he’d ever felt like he wasn’t… himself.
If a laugh could feel like a stranger’s voice.
If your own skin could feel just slightly… unfamiliar. Like putting on a shirt you used to love and suddenly realizing it doesn’t fit right anymore.

But I didn’t.

I just lay there, quiet, while some late-night sitcom played in the background, and the edges of the world got softer again.
The laugh track rose and fell like a tide I wasn’t part of.
And slowly, I drifted somewhere between sleep and not-sleep — where thoughts echoed longer and feelings didn’t have names.

“Oh by the way, Maya came by,” Garrett said without looking up from the TV. “Left a note on the whiteboard outside. Something about meeting her outside the student union at eight tomorrow morning.”

He stretched with a yawn and the creak of his mattress, then smirked. “Aww, that your girlfriend?”

I sat up just enough to glare at him over the blanket. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.”

Garrett grinned like he’d just scored a point. One of those slow, knowing grins that made you want to throw a pillow at him. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say. You two have, like, a weekly date or something?”

“It’s not a date,” I muttered.

I pulled the blanket back over my head, but the heat in my face wouldn’t go away.
Of course he’d say something like that. Garrett could flirt with a vending machine if it talked back. Meanwhile I couldn’t even giggle without causing a crisis.

Outside, I heard voices echoing down the hall — someone laughing, a door slamming shut. A muffled “Dude, it’s my turn!” floated through the air, followed by the mechanical clunk of an arcade joystick. Probably the guys down the hall fighting over Street Fighter II again.

I closed my eyes, trying not to overthink it.
Maya was just a friend.
A good one. The kind that brought grape soda and sarcasm and watched Clueless without judgment. She’d probably just wanted to check in after movie night. No big deal.

Still, I couldn’t shake the weird flutter in my chest.
Not about her.
About me.

The flutter sat somewhere between my ribs, like a moth caught in a jar — soft, unsettled, impossible to ignore.