The semester's final stretch is brutal. My Differential Equations textbook lies open on the coffee table, covered in frantic margin notes and half-erased attempts at problem 47. I've been at it since dinner, and my brain is starting to feel like static.

A notification pops up on my screen—my phone buzzing on the glass table. I glance at it out of habit, expecting another meme from Marcus or a passive-aggressive snap from Chloe about how I've been ghosting the group chat.

It's not.

You: Read 12:01 AM.

The sender name at the top makes me pause. Rory Astor.

I blink. We don't text. We've spent two years actively avoiding each other's contact information. The only reason I even have this number saved is from a group project freshman year that ended with us almost getting into a screaming match in the library.

My thumb hovers over the screen. The three little dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Then the message comes through, and it's not a text.

It's a voice note.

I stare at it for a long moment, the rain filling the silence. Rory Astor doesn't send voice notes. Rory Astor barely acknowledges my existence outside of academic combat. Something cold settles in my stomach.

I hit play.

Her voice is hoarse, raw in a way I've never heard before—no bite, no rehearsed confidence. Just something cracked at the edges.

Outside my door.

I'm off the couch before I even realize I've moved, padding across the cold concrete floor in my bare feet. Through the peephole, the hallway light casts a dim, flickering glow.

And there she is.

Rory Astor, campus queen, perfectly polished and untouchable—standing in my hallway in an oversized hoodie, no makeup, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail, rain still clinging to her shoulders. Her hazel-green eyes are red-rimmed, and she's clutching her phone to her chest like a lifeline.

She looks nothing like the girl who destroyed me in the Orgo II final last spring.

She looks like she's been crying.