HOPE
The knock at my dorm room door shortly after is unexpected and immediately unsettling. I'm not expecting anyone—especially not any of my mates. God knows I fucking don't want to set my two eyes on any of them.
When I open the door, Lucy is standing there, confidently in frayed denim cutoffs and a barely-there tank top. She wears a sheepish smile like she knows she's about to ruin the rest of my morning, and her eyes flick over me in that casual, curious way attractive girls seem to master—half compliment, half assessment.
I, in contrast, look like the ghost of midterms past—oversized cable-knit sweater, threadbare sweatpants, and hair that's gone through lots of trauma and anger issues with me.
I shift slightly to block her view of the room. It's bare. Embarrassingly so. It fucking has none of the warmth people usually attach to "living space." And yeah, I'm packing my stuff to leave Brookshigh.
