Y/n stands at the curb, one hand on a battered suitcase, the other gripping the strap of a guitar case slung over one shoulder. A camera bag digs into the opposite collarbone. A potted plant — some kind of fern, unimpressed with the move — sits balanced on top of the suitcase, leaves drooping in the heat.

The moving truck is long gone. This is it. The start of the semester.

A fly buzzes past, lazy and insistent.

Through the glass doors, there's movement — a blur of dark clothing, laughter echoing off the tiled lobby. A voice, distinctly loud, carries through the glass.

A pigeon lands on the curb nearby, tilts its head at Y/n, and coos, unimpressed.

The dorm looms. Somewhere inside, a suite waits — room assignment emailed three days ago, all caps, subject line: "YOUR FINAL ROOMING ASSIGNMENT — PLEASE READ."

The heat presses in. The plant wilts slightly.