Something Like Home

The campus buzzed with that too-loud energy that came with move-in day: laughter bouncing off brick walls, rolling suitcases clicking across pavement, and upperclassmen yelling directions like drill sergeants in neon shirts.

Iris Parker pressed her forehead to the cool glass of her third-floor dorm window, breathing in the quiet she carved for herself above the chaos. Her room was half-unpacked, books stacked sideways on the desk, blankets still folded at the foot of her bed.

She wasn’t used to this much noise. Not anymore.

That’s when she saw him.

A boy standing across the courtyard through her window.

Barefoot. Wearing a familiar red hoodie she had seen before.

Iris blinked—and the person was gone.

She blinked again. Rubbed her eyes. Leaned closer to the glass, searching the walkways below. But the courtyard lay empty, as if no one had ever been there at all.

She let out a slow breath. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just her nerves, or the shadow of someone walking by earlier, or—

But something about that red hoodie gnawed at her.

She turned from the window with a jump when her roommate came bursting through their dorm room door.

“Sorry!” the girl said, breathless, dragging two bulging bags behind her. “Elevator was broken again and I nearly died on the stairs. Twice.”

Iris blinked, still half in the moment, half outside.

“Iris, right?” The girl stuck out her hand without waiting. “I’m Lily. Lily Matthews. Your official college survival partner.”

Iris shook her hand automatically, her eyes flicking back once more to the window.

The courtyard remained still. Just trees, concrete, and the rustle of a breeze that didn’t care what she’d seen.

Lily lingered by the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, her foot tapping softly against the floor. “Earth to Iris,” she said, not unkindly but with the kind of impatience that came from living with someone for exactly eight weeks.

Iris didn’t turn. Her eyes stayed locked on the courtyard like the shape might reappear if she waited long enough.

“I didn’t take you for the spooky type,” Lily said lightly, dropping her bag on the bed with a thud. “Staring off like a ghost just walked by.”

Iris blinked, still half-lost in the sight she wasn’t even sure she saw. “Sorry. Just thought I saw someone.”

Lily came over, peering out the window with her. “Well, I don’t see anyone now. You okay?”

Iris nodded, even though she wasn’t sure. “Yeah. Probably just tired.”

Lily smiled. “You sure you don’t want me to do a sage cleanse or something? I think my aunt packed a kit for me. She’s really into crystals and energy fields.”

Lily nodded in agreement.

“Good idea. We may need it for sure by then.”

She flopped onto her bed, already pulling out a textbook with the kind of dramatic sigh that made Iris grin again. But as she turned back toward her desk, her eyes flicked once more to the window.

Nothing. Still just the courtyard. Still just the breeze.

But the feeling hadn’t left her chest—like someone had touched her shoulder and vanished before she could turn around. Iris shook her head, as if to try to shake the feeling, as she too sat down on her bed to begin her mandatory reading.

Iris walked across campus, the sun hanging lazily in the sky, casting long shadows across the quad. It had been a week since she moved in, and the bustle of university life was beginning to feel familiar, if not entirely comfortable. The pathways between the academic buildings were always crowded with students—some with coffee cups in hand, others in groups discussing assignments or plans for the weekend.

She had found a rhythm. Mornings were usually spent in the library, trying to finish the mountain of reading she had already fallen behind on. Her afternoons were a mix of lectures and quiet walks around campus, trying to find a balance between learning and adjusting to her new surroundings. Most evenings were spent in her dorm room, either reading or chatting with Lily about the latest gossip, keeping things light and easy.

Iris paused to take a deep breath. The late summer air was warm, tinged with the smell of fresh grass and something floral. The breeze fluttered through her hair, and she smiled to herself, enjoying the break from the textbooks and notes she had buried herself in.

She made her way to a bench under a large oak tree, setting her bag down beside her. A small group of students were gathered nearby, laughing and talking about plans for the weekend. Iris tried to focus on the pages in front of her, but something about the way the afternoon sun filtered through the leaves kept pulling her attention away.

It was then that the breeze shifted again, carrying a faint scent with it—something sweet, almost like wildflowers. For a second, Iris was struck with the oddest sensation, as though she had smelled it before, years ago, but she couldn’t place where. The feeling was brief, just a flicker. She shook her head, trying to focus on the task at hand.

She pulled her hair back, the faintest trace of a memory brushing against the edge of her mind. But the moment passed just as quickly as it came, and Iris, now slightly unsettled but not sure why, returned her attention to the textbook in front of her.

She wasn’t sure why she had readily accepted a psychology class as one of her electives, but the idea of it had pulled at the inquisitive parts of her brain, the parts that had never quite let go of the strange, unexplainable feelings she’d had since moving to college.

Her eyes drifted down to the textbook in her hands, where the first passage read:

“We are not as good at reasoning as we think we are. The brain is a lazy machine, often relying on shortcuts or ‘heuristics’ to make quick judgments...”

She chuckled aloud when she circled back to the phrase “the brain is a lazy machine.” If that were true, her brain was like a sloth on sleeping meds—slow to catch on and even slower to let go of weird thoughts that had no business lingering.

“These shortcuts, though efficient, sometimes lead us astray. Our minds fill in gaps, make assumptions, and use patterns to interpret the world around us—sometimes so well that we don’t even realize it. In fact, our brains often create the illusion of understanding, where we believe we know what is happening, even when we don’t.”

The words “create the illusion” sent a shiver up her spine.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the textbook, suddenly aware of the soft hum of the dorm room and the rustle of wind outside her window. Illusion. Like the red hoodie. Like the boy who wasn’t there.

She shook her head once more, but the sense of being watched crawled back under her skin like a whisper she couldn’t quite hear.

Iris snapped the book closed, pushing it to the farther reaches of the bench she sat on.

The quad buzzed quietly around her—groups of students with coffee cups and laptops, the occasional burst of laughter carried on the breeze. Normal things. Ordinary things. And yet, she felt like she was just slightly out of step with all of it, like someone had turned the world one degree off center and she was the only one who noticed.

She rubbed her arms despite the warmth of the sun.

Maybe she just needed more sleep.

Or maybe something was beginning.

And it had been waiting for her to notice.