Archie's alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., a shrill screech that felt like it was being screamed directly into his soul. He slapped at the phone until the noise stopped, then lay in the dark, momentarily convinced he'd dreamed up the entire concept of college. Surely, no sane society would demand humans be conscious this early.
"Rise and panic," Elliot called from the bathroom, already brushing his teeth while blasting lo-fi beats from a speaker shaped like a rubber duck.
Archie groaned and rolled out of bed like a reluctant corpse returning for one last haunting. His reflection in the mirror didn't inspire confidence—his hair was staging a coup, and his eyes carried the haunted look of someone being forced to socialize before caffeine. His socks didn't match. His soul didn't either.
Breakfast was a granola bar he wasn't sure belonged to him and exactly two spoonfuls of expired yogurt. By 7:15, he was out the door, armed with a notebook, a pen that didn't work, and the vague hope that maybe—maybe—he wouldn't get horribly lost on his first day.
Thornbridge campus was already wide awake, humming with that unique blend of optimism and collective dread. Students poured out of buildings in every direction—some yawning, some jogging, some wearing pajamas like it was a political statement. A girl in a full frog costume handed him a pamphlet about climate justice. A guy with a ukulele followed him for three minutes singing about capitalism.
Archie arrived at Psych 101 ten minutes early, mostly out of fear of being That Late Guy. The lecture hall was enormous and echoey, like a courtroom where you were sentenced to overthink your childhood.
He picked a seat near the middle. Neutral ground. Not too ambitious, not too apathetic. He was halfway through pretending to read the syllabus when someone flopped into the chair beside him with the energy of a summer storm.
"Hey there, seatmate!" chirped the girl beside him, swinging her bag down with dramatic flair. "I'm Anne. I like chaos, iced coffee, and giving professors nervous breakdowns before midterms. What's your name?"
Archie blinked. "Uh. Archie."
"Short for Archibald?"
"I hope not."
Anne snorted. "Excellent answer. You've passed the vibe check. You ever taken psych before?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. But I've been in therapy since I was ten, so I feel like I'm spiritually qualified."
She grinned like they'd been friends for years. Archie didn't know what to do with her energy—she was loud, fast-talking, and possibly powered by espresso and spite. But it was weirdly comforting. Like being hit by a very cheerful train.
The professor entered just as Anne was describing the plot of a dream she had where Sigmund Freud stole her cat. Dr. Helser was a sharp-jawed woman in her fifties who wore chunky glasses, steel-gray hair in a bun, and the aura of someone who could silence a riot with a look.
She dumped a stack of books on the desk and addressed the class without even taking off her coat.
"I'm Dr. Helser. This is Psychology 101. If you are here to diagnose your roommate or emotionally blackmail your ex, please leave."
No one moved.
"Cowards," she muttered.
Archie found himself laughing under his breath. Anne elbowed him. "I love her. I want to be her when I grow up. Or date her. Or both."
Class began. Dr. Helser launched into a lecture on cognitive dissonance while juggling a slideshow, a cup of coffee the size of a plant pot, and a chalkboard diagram that looked suspiciously like a monster from Greek mythology.
Anne whispered nonstop commentary in Archie's ear, mostly helpful, occasionally ridiculous.
"She said frontal lobe. That's the sexy part, right?"
Archie choked on air.
By the time class ended, his notebook was half-full with actual notes and half-full with Anne's doodles of various emotions as pigeons.
"You're coming to lunch with me," she announced, packing up. "That wasn't a question."
He hesitated.
"You owe me," she said, matter-of-fact. "I saved you from social death. You were five minutes from becoming 'that mysterious kid who never talks and might be a vampire.'"
"...Fine," Archie muttered. "But I'm not sitting near the guy with the ukulele."
"Deal."
Back in the dorm that evening, Archie collapsed into his bed with all the grace of a tranquilized deer. Elliot glanced up from his computer.
"So? How was first contact with academia?"
Archie rolled onto his stomach. "I got emotionally hijacked by a girl named Anne who may or may not run on battery acid and good intentions."
Elliot gave a thumbs-up. "Sounds like a good start."
And strangely, it was.
He didn't remember who he used to be. But today, surrounded by weirdos and laughter and caffeine-fueled chaos, he felt—if only for a moment—like maybe he wasn't entirely lost.