Chapter 1 : Arrival
The first thing I noticed was how quiet the campus felt, despite the noise.
People moved everywhere—laughing, calling to each other, dragging suitcases across stone paths—but the sound didn’t settle. It skimmed past me, like I was slightly out of sync with the day. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, how to move like they belonged here.
I didn’t.
I had arrived that morning. My suitcase still carried travel stickers I hadn’t bothered to peel away, their corners curling from use. University had been the plan for long enough that I’d stopped questioning it. The reason for the move. The explanation I gave whenever someone asked, because it was easier than saying anything else.
The wheels rattled as I crossed the main square. I tightened my grip on the handle and kept walking, even though my chest felt heavy with everything I’d brought—and everything I’d left behind.
As I walked, I felt it again.
That sensation—like someone was watching me.
I slowed and glanced over my shoulder.
Nothing.
Just students crossing the quad, a cyclist cutting through the open space, leaves stirring where the path curved toward the trees. No one lingered. No one looked at me longer than they should have.
I told myself it was nerves. New place. New life. The mind clinging to old instincts when everything familiar had been stripped away.
Still, I didn’t shake the feeling.
It followed me across the square, pressing lightly at the edges of my awareness until I reached my first lecture hall and stepped briefly into its shadow.
Even then, it lingered.
The residence building came into view moments later, and relief loosened my shoulders. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cleaning products mixed with old wood and fabric. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Voices were muffled behind doors.
I followed the hallway, counting doors until the number on my phone matched the one in front of me.
The room was small but functional.
Two beds. Two desks. One window overlooking a courtyard already filling with evening movement. One side of the room was clearly occupied—books stacked neatly, a jacket draped over a chair, a mug resting beside a lamp.
My roommate was already here.
That was enough.
I chose the bed closest to the window and set my suitcase down. For a moment, I just stood there, breathing, letting the quiet settle. Then I began to unpack slowly—folding clothes, sliding shoes beneath the bed, placing familiar objects where I could see them.
Each small action grounded me, made the room feel less borrowed.
The door opened softly behind me.
I turned as a girl stepped inside, phone in hand. She glanced at me and smiled briefly.
“Hey,” she said. “You must be my roommate.”
“Yeah. Hi.”
She nodded and crossed to her side of the room. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable—just new. The kind that exists before people decide who they’re going to be to each other.
As evening settled in, the building filled with sound. Laughter drifted up from the courtyard. Music played faintly somewhere down the hall. Doors opened and closed as people arrived, left, returned again.
Later, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling while darkness gathered outside the window.
The feeling returned.
Not fear. Not excitement.
Just awareness.
I turned my head toward the glass.
For a moment, I was certain that if I looked long enough, I would see something looking back.
I didn’t.
Still, the certainty stayed with me.
Tomorrow would matter.
