When I first moved into Dormitory C, Room 18 was already occupied.
The door was half open when I arrived with my suitcase and a box of books I'd never finish reading. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and old wood. Girls were laughing somewhere downstairs and their sound echoing up the stairwell, distant and warm.
Inside the room, she was sitting cross-legged on the lower bunk.
She looked up when I pushed the door fully open. "You must be my roommate," she said, smiling like she'd been waiting.
Her name was Livia
She had soft eyes and hair that fell past her shoulders in careless waves. There was something fragile about her, like the thin edge of glass. But she spoke easily. Too easily for someone who later told me she didn't leave the room.
"I don't really go outside much," she admitted that first night while I unpacked. "Crowds make my chest tight."
I nodded and didn't ask more. I understood what it meant to want small spaces. I had chosen a boarding school two cities away because it felt easier than staying home.
The first thing I noticed was that no one mentioned her.
During orientation, when the dorm supervisor called out room numbers, she only said my name for 314. I assumed it was a mistake. Later, at dinner, girls asked me how my "single room" was.
"It's not single," I said. "I have a roommate."
They looked at each other like I'd told a joke wrong.
That night, I told Livia about it. She laughed softly and said, "They forget sometimes."
"Forget what?"
"That I'm here."
She said it lightly, but her eyes didn't match her tone and I couldn't help but feel uneasy about it.
Days slipped into weeks and I grew used to her being there when I returned from class. She would sit on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, watching the door as if counting seconds until I came back.
We talked about everything. The teachers we disliked,the way the rain hit the window like tapping fingers and the ache of missing people who didn't miss us back.
Sometimes I read aloud to her as she said she liked the sound of my voice.
But there were things that didn't make sense.
Her side of the room never change, the blanket was always smooth, her desk had no books, no pens and no mess. I never saw her sleep. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and she would be sitting upright, looking at me.
"Don't you ever get tired?" I asked once, half-asleep.
She smiled, "Not anymore."
One afternoon, I came back early from class because of a headache. The door was locked.
I frowned. I never locked it.
When I finally got it open with the spare key from the supervisor, the room was empty.
Not just empty of Livia, empty of everything.
There was only one bed, one desk, one wardrobe. My suitcase under the frame and my books stacked neatly on a single table.
The lower bunk was gone.
I stood in the center of the room, my pulse climbing into my throat.
That night, Livia was back.
She was sitting on the bed again, as if nothing had happened.
"Where did you go?" I asked.
She tilted her head. "I've always been here."
"No," I whispered. "Today there was only one bed."
Her expression shifted, something like sadness passing over her face. "You shouldn't listen to what they show you."
"Who?"
She didn't answer.
The next morning, I went to the administration office.
"I think there's been a mistake," I said, trying to sound calm. "Room 18 is supposed to have two beds, right?"
The woman behind the desk frowned at her computer screen. "18 has been a single room for years."
"That's not possible. My roommate—"
"There is no roommate assigned to 18."
The air felt thin. I swallowed "Was there… someone before?"
Her fingers paused on the keyboard.
"There was an incident," she said carefully, "about five years ago, a student named Livia. She…" The woman hesitated. "She passed away in that room."
The word passed felt too gentle for the weight of it.
"How?" My voice barely existed.
"It was ruled a suicide."
The room seemed to tilt in my head.
"She had severe suicide and rarely left the dorm. We tried to help but-".
I walked back to 18 on unsteady legs. When I opened the door, Livia was by the window.
"You went looking," she said softly.
I couldn't breathe properly. "They said you died."
She didn't deny it.
"They said you…" My throat burned. "They said you killed yourself."
She turned toward me fully now. For the first time, her smile was gone.
"I didn't want to be alone," she said. "It felt like the walls were closing in every day. I thought if I left first, it would stop hurting."
My hands trembled. "Then what are you?"
"Maybe I'm the part that stayed," she whispered. "Maybe I'm just the memory of a girl who didn't want to disappear."
Tears blurred my vision.
"I don't understand," I said.
She stepped closer. She reached out and brushed her fingers against mine. They were col and freezing.
"You're the only one who sees me," she said. "You've been here longer than anyone else."
"That's not true. I just moved—"
She shook her head gently. "Think."
And I did.
I thought about the way teachers sometimes paused before saying my name, as if adjusting to it. The way no one ever knocked on my door. The way the supervisor always slipped letters under the crack without calling out.
I thought about the accident.
The bus ride back from winter freezing, the sharp turn ans the sound of metal folding.
The hospital ceiling above me and the quiet that followed.
My knees gave out and I sank onto the bed.
"I died," I said, the words foreign and solid at the same time.
Livia knelt in front of me. Her eyes were shining.
"You never left," she said.
I remembered now. I had been the one who didn't want to let go. I had been the one sitting in this room, waiting for something that wasn't coming.
"You stayed because you were scared," she continued softly. "Just like I did."
A strange calm began to settle over me. It wasn't peace but it was understanding.
"All this time," I whispered, "I thought you were haunting me."
She smiled again, and this time it was steady.
"I was keeping you company."
The hallway outside the door felt farther away than ever. The world beyond the walls blurred at the edges.
"Do you regret it?" I asked her.
She looked toward the ceiling, thinking. "I regret leaving like that. I regret thinking no one would miss me." Her gaze returned to mine. "But I don't regret staying for you."
My chest tightened.
"I'm scared," I admitted.
"I know."
"Will it hurt?"
"No," she said gently. "It's just like stepping into another room."
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since I arrived at 18, the air didn't feel heavy.
"Will you come with me?" I asked.
She hesitated.
"I can't," she said softly. "I've been here too long. But you don't belong here anymore."
Her hand rested against my cheek, cool and steady.
"You can let go now."
The room grew lighter as if gravity itself had loosened its grip.
When I opened my eyes, Livia was sitting back on the bed, watching me with something like pride. I felt myself thinning at the edges, like mist in morning sunlight.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She nodded.
By the time the hallway laughter drifted up from downstairs, Room 18 was quiet again.
One bed. One desk. One closed door.
And a girl sitting by the window, waiting a little less desperately than before.