Chapter 1: Introduction
The classroom air smelled like chalk dust and old wood. Emily kept her eyes on the scuffed toes of her shoes, black polish against gray linoleum. A thirty-seven minute clock ticked above the door.
“Everyone, this is Emily Kitsuhara. She’s transferring into 3-B for the remainder of the year.”
Ms. Ito’s voice was a flat neutral tone. Emily forced her head up. A sea of faces, blurred at the edges. She focused on a crack in the wall behind them. Don’t trip. Don’t say something stupid.
“You can take the empty seat there. Behind Tanaka.”
A chair leg squealed against the floor. Jay Tanaka shifted in his seat, glancing back. His look was quick, a flash of assessment. Dark eyes, a sharp jaw. He turned forward again, the muscles in his shoulders moving under his white shirt.
Emily walked. Her bag felt too heavy. She was aware of the space her body occupied, the swing of her hips, the press of her blouse. She slid into the desk. The plastic seat was warm.
Class resumed. Economics. Supply curves. The words dissolved into a low hum.
A note landed on her desk, folded tight. She stared at it. The paper was crisp, blue-lined. She unfolded it under the desk.
Where’d you transfer from? — H
The handwriting was neat, sloping. Emily looked to her left. A girl with a sharp bob and watchful eyes gave a faint, closed-lip smile. Hana Sato. Emily had seen her in the dorm lobby, surrounded by others. A nucleus.
She borrowed a pen. St. Agnes’, in the city. She passed it back.
The reply came faster. Why’d you come here? Nothing but trees and sadness.
Emily paused. She wrote, Needed a change.
Hana read it, smirked, and didn’t write back.
The bell rang. A synchronized scrape of chairs. Emily was slow to pack her bag. She wanted the room to empty first.
“You’ll get used to it.” The voice came from beside her. Jay Tanaka stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder. He was taller up close. “The pacing’s different here. Slower.”
“Noted,” Emily said. Her voice came out quieter than she wanted.
He nodded toward the door. “You’re in Shiranui Dorm, right? Same as me and Hana. Walk with us.”
Hana appeared at his elbow, her smile now bright and wide. “Yes, walk with us! I can give you the real tour. Not the brochure one.” She linked her arm through Jay’s with a practiced ease. He didn’t pull away, but his body seemed to go still.
The hallway was a current of dark blazers and chatter. Emily followed half a step behind.
“So, St. Agnes’,” Hana said, glancing back. “That’s fancy. Why’d you leave?”
“It wasn’t… it wasn’t a good fit.”
“Boy trouble?” Hana’s tone was light, singsong. A needle.
Emily’s stomach tightened. Ren’s face flashed behind her eyes—his smile, then the cold blankness that followed. The way his grip would tighten on her wrist just a little too much. “Something like that.”
Jay looked at her then, a longer look. “Better to be away from that,” he said, simple.
Hana’s laugh was a short, melodic sound. “Jay thinks drama is a virus. He avoids contagion.” She squeezed his arm. “He’s boring like that.”
“I’m predictable,” Jay corrected, but there was no warmth in it.
They pushed through the main doors. The autumn air was a shock, clean and cold. The path to the dorms wound through a stand of cedars.
“The dorm rules are basically: don’t get caught,” Hana said. “Boys on fifth and sixth. Girls on third and fourth. Common rooms on two. People hook up in the laundry rooms sometimes. It’s gross.”
“Helpful, Hana,” Jay said.
“I’m a helpful person.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Emily watched the fallen leaves skitter ahead.
“What do you do? For fun here,” Emily asked, just to say something.
“Sports,” Jay said at the same time Hana said, “Parties.”
Hana laughed. “Jay is sports. I am parties. You’ll have to pick a side.”
“I don’t pick sides,” Jay said. He’d slowed his pace so Emily was now walking beside him. Hana kept hold of his arm, forced to adjust her stride.
“Everyone picks a side,” Hana said. Her voice had lost its playful edge.
They reached the dorm, a gray concrete block softened by ivy. Hana dropped Jay’s arm. “I have a student council thing. See you at dinner, Em! Try not to get lost.” She vanished inside, a swirl of perfume and purpose.
Jay held the door open. The lobby was quiet, empty sofas under fluorescent lights.
“She’s… intense,” Emily said.
“She’s used to running things.” He pressed the button for the elevator. “You’ll figure it out. Who to listen to.”
The elevator doors opened with a ding. They stepped in. It was just the two of them now, in a bright, small box.
“You don’t seem like you need saving,” Jay said, staring at the numbered lights. “But if Hana offers, be careful. She likes projects. Then she gets bored.”
The doors opened on the third floor. Girls’ floor. Emily hesitated.
“Thanks. For the walk.”
Jay leaned against the doorjamb, stopping the doors from closing. “You’re not a project,” he said. His eyes met hers. There was no playfulness there, just a direct, steady clarity. For a second, he looked like someone who was tired of performing.
Then he stepped back. The doors slid shut, leaving her alone in the silent hallway. Her room was down at the end. Key in hand, she realized her palms were damp.
Inside, the room was sterile. A bed, a desk, a window looking out at more trees. She dropped her bag. Her reflection in the dark window was a pale ghost. She looked like someone trying to be anonymous.
Downstairs, in the common room, Jay stood by the vending machine. He bought a cold tea but didn’t open it. He was seeing the new girl’s face, the careful way she held herself, like someone bracing for an impact. He saw the flicker of fear when Hana said “boy trouble.”
Hana appeared beside him, plucking the tea from his hand. “She’s pretty,” she said, taking a sip.
“She’s quiet.”
“Quiet ones are the most work.” Hana leaned against the machine. “You felt sorry for her. I saw.”
Jay took his drink back. “I didn’t feel anything.”
“Liar.” Hana’s smile was sweet, her eyes hard. “You always feel something. You just never do anything about it.”
She walked away, leaving him holding the cold can. He looked toward the elevator banks, then out the window at the gathering dusk. The new girl was upstairs, probably unpacking her life into small drawers. He wondered what she’d brought, what she’d left behind. He wondered what it was like, to have a past that forced you to run.
Upstairs, Emily finished lining her pencils on the desk. Neat, orderly rows. A way to pretend she had control. Outside, the trees were merging into one dark mass. Somewhere below, in the heart of the building, she could hear the faint thump of music, a laugh echoing down a hall. A whole ecosystem, already in motion.
She had to find her place in it. Or get swallowed whole.
The dinner hall was a cavern of noise and steam. Emily stood at the entrance, tray in hand, scanning the long tables. Groups flowed around her, a current she wasn’t part of. She saw Hana at a central table, surrounded by laughing faces. Jay was a few seats down, listening to a guy talk, nodding but not laughing.
Her feet moved before her mind could panic. She walked toward an emptier table near a pillar, a spot half in shadow.
“That seat’s taken.”
The voice was flat. A girl with glasses didn’t look up from her book, her hand resting on the chairback.
Emily’s cheeks burned.“Right. Sorry.”
She turned, adrift. The room seemed to swell with sound.
“Kitsuhara.”
Jay stood beside her. He had gotten up without her noticing. “Our table’s over here. Come on.”
It wasn’t an offer. It was a quiet command. She followed, aware of eyes following them.
He stopped at his table, but not beside Hana. He pointed to a seat on the bench opposite him, next to a boy with headphones. “Mack, move your bag.”
Mack looked up, shrugged, slid his bag to the floor. Emily sat.
Hana’s smile from across the table was plastic. “Found your way. Good.”
“Thanks to Jay,” Emily said.
“Jay’s a natural guide.” Hana speared a piece of chicken. “It’s the athlete in him. Always looking for strays.”
The boy with headphones, Mack, pulled one ear cup off. “You’re the new transfer. St. Agnes’, right? Heard it’s brutal.”
“It had its moments,” Emily said, picking at her food.
“This place is brutal in a different way,” Mack said. “The isolation gets inside your head. Makes people weird.”
“You’re one to talk,” another guy said, and the table chuckled.
The conversation became a buffer around her. She ate in silence, listening. Jay didn’t say much either. He’d glance at her occasionally, not with pity, but with a kind of shared recognition. He was performing, too. Smiling at the right times. Playing his part.
After dinner, the flow splintered. Hana was whisked away by a group of girls. Mack disappeared back into his music. Jay fell into step beside Emily as they walked out into the cool evening.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Rescue me. Again.”
“I didn’t rescue you. I just redirected you. There’s a difference.”
They walked toward the academic building.Study hours. The path was lit by old iron lamps.
“Why?” she asked. The question hung in the air between them.
He was quiet for a long time. “I know what it’s like,” he finally said, his voice low. “To have everyone think they know your script. To feel like you’re just… fulfilling a role.The athlete. The good guy. The friend.”
“It seems like a good role.”
“It’s a cage.” He stopped walking. They were under a lamp now, moths batting against the glass. “You have this look. Like you’re seeing the cage bars in everything. I recognize it.”
Emily’s throat felt tight. She hadn’t said anything, but he’d seen it. The constant calculation, the flinch waiting to happen.
“Ren,” she said, the name bitter on her tongue. “My ex. He was good at scripts. At first, it was romantic. Then the lines changed. I kept trying to learn my new part. To be what would stop him from getting angry. It was all just… performance.”
Jay didn’t touch her. He just listened, his face serious in the yellow light.
“One night, he shoved me. Not hard. But it was a punctuation mark. The end of a scene I didn’t know we were in.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “My parents found the bruise. They saw the grades. They sent me here. To rewrite the character, I guess.”
“Do you want to rewrite it?” he asked.
“I don’t know who I am without the performance,” she whispered.
He moved then, just a slight shift closer. “Maybe you start by not performing for anyone. Even me.”
Her breath caught. His eyes were dark pools, intent.
From the path behind them, a sharp, ringing laugh. Hana’s laugh. They stepped apart instinctively.
“There you two are!” Hana approached, a silhouette with two other girls. “We’re doing a dorm room hang. Movies. You’re both coming.”
It wasn’t a question. Jay’s easy mask slid back into place. “Sure. After study hour.”
“Obviously.” Hana’s gaze swept over Emily, a swift appraisal. “Wear something comfortable, Em. It gets… cozy.”
She left, her group trailing her.
Jay looked back at Emily. The moment was gone, replaced by a new tension. “You don’t have to come,” he said.
“If I don’t, I’m picking a side. Right?”
He gave a faint, resigned smile.“Yeah. You are.”
The common room on the second floor of Shiranui was dim, lit only by a large screen and a string of fairy lights. Blankets and pillows were strewn across sofas and the floor. Seven or eight people were already there, a bag of chips passing between them.
Emily wore an old sweatshirt and jeans. She sat on the edge of a large floor cushion, trying to take up minimal space.
Hana presided from the center of the largest sofa. She’d changed into expensive-looking soft shorts and a tank top. She patted the space next to her. “Jay, sit. You’re blocking the screen.”
Jay sat on the arm of the sofa, not in the spot she’d indicated. The movie started, some loud action comedy. The room filled with the sounds of explosions and easy laughter.
Twenty minutes in, Hana declared it boring. “Let’s play a game.”
Groans, but no real resistance. A bottle was procured from someone’s bag. Truth or Dare.
Emily’s blood went cold. This was a trap. She knew the geometry of it.
The first rounds were tame. Silly dares, bland truths. The bottle spun. It landed on Mack.
“Truth,” he mumbled.
Hana leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “Who’s the worst kisser you’ve kissed in this room?”
The air stiffened. It was a grenade disguised as a question. Mack’s eyes darted around. Everyone here had dated or hooked up within the group. It was a small, closed system.
“I… I plead the fifth,” he said, turning red.
Hana laughed, letting him off the hook. “Spin.”
The bottle spun again. Slowed. The neck came to a stop, pointing directly at Emily.
All eyes turned to her.
“Truth or Dare, new girl,” Hana said, her voice sweetly challenging.
Emily’s mouth was dry. “Truth.” Safer.Probably.
Hana’s smile was a knife-edge. “Okay.Truth. What’s the most shameful thing you’ve ever done for a guy’s attention?”
The room got very quiet. Even the movie’s muffled sounds from the laptop seemed to fade. This was the performance. Hana was forcing her on stage, demanding a confession.
Emily felt Ren’s ghost in the room. His voice in her ear. You’re nothing without me.
She looked at Jay. He was staring hard at Hana, a warning in his eyes.
“Giving second chances,” Emily said, her voice clear in the silence. She spun the bottle before anyone could object her answer not being juicy enough. It landed on Jay. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“Marry, fuck, kill out of the people in this circle.”
A low whistle cut the air. Someone snorted a laugh. The room tightened, a collective inhale waiting for the explosion.
Jay didn’t look at Hana. He didn’t look at Emily. He stared at the bottle, his expression unreadable. He leaned back against the sofa arm, the picture of casual deliberation.
“Marry Mack,” he said, his voice even. “For the quiet. Fuck Hana.” A beat of stunned silence. He continued, flat. “For the drama. Kill my lab partner, Chris, over there.” He gestured with his chin toward a lanky boy in the corner. “Because he screwed up our last data set and I’d enjoy it.”
The room erupted. Not in outrage, but in laughter. It was a brilliant, clinical dodge. He’d chosen based on utility and inside jokes, not attraction. He’d reduced the game to mechanics.
Hana’s smile was frozen. Jay theoretically choosing to fuck her warmed her core. She missed the comedic reason he chose her.
Chris, the lab partner, threw a chip at him. “Rude, man!”
Jay just shrugged, a faint smirk on his lips. He looked at Emily then. A quick, cutting glance. See? it seemed to say. You play their game, but you use your own rules.
The tension broke into fragments. The game continued, spinning away from them. Emily felt the weight of the spotlight lift. She wrapped her arms around her knees, watching the circle.
Hana was quieter now. She sipped from a can, her eyes following Jay with a hungry, frustrated intensity.
The bottle landed on others. Dares to text exes, truths about secret crushes. The energy was looser, drunker. The fairy lights blurred into soft halos.
At some point, Jay stood and went to the kitchenette, refilling his water. Emily found herself moving, needing air away from the press of bodies. She stood by the large window, looking out at the dark campus.
He appeared beside her, a glass of water in hand. He offered it. She took it.
“You’re good at that,” she said softly, the noise of the room at their backs.
“At what?”
“Deflection. Camouflage.”
He took a sip from his own glass. “It’s a survival skill.”
Outside, a lone security light buzzed, an island in the black. “You didn’t answer her question,” he said. “Not really. About the shameful thing.”
Emily traced a line in the condensation on her glass. “Yes, I did. Giving second chances was the shameful thing. Giving third, and fourth, and fifth ones. Letting someone convince me that love felt like walking on glass. That the cuts were part of the beauty.”
Jay was silent for a long time. The noise behind them felt distant.
“He still texts me,” she heard herself say, the confession slipping out in the dark near the window. “New number, every time I block the old one. ‘I’ve changed. You ruined me by leaving. You owe me.’” She let out a thin breath. “It’s just words on a screen now. But they feel like hands.”
Jay’s hand tightened on his glass. “Tell someone. A proctor. Ito.”
“And say what? My ex-boyfriend is sending me sad texts from anonymous apps? It sounds pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic,” he said, his voice low and firm. “It’s a tactic. He’s keeping his hooks in. Tell someone.”
She looked at him, really looked. The perfect athlete, the golden boy, standing in this dark corner telling her to trust authority. There was an urgency in his eyes that didn’t match his casual posture. A fracture in the performance.
“Why do you care?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He watched the empty path below. “Because I know what it’s like to be told who you are. To have a script. The jock. The leader. The nice guy. Everyone smiles, and you just have to keep reading the lines they gave you.” He turned his head toward her. “You’re the first person here who looks at me and seems to see… the guy holding the script. Not the character.”
The connection was a live wire between them. Simple. Undeniable.
A crash of laughter from the sofa. Hana’s voice, sharp and bright, called out. “Jay! Your turn again. Stop conspiring with the new girl.”
The moment snapped. The noise flooded back.
“We should sit back down,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“Yeah,” Emily whispered.
He took the empty glass from her hand. Their fingers brushed. A static shock, or a spark.
They returned to the circle. Hana watched them settle, her gaze flicking between them, calculating. The game wound down. People drifted off, yawning, claiming early morning classes.
Soon, it was just Hana, Jay, Emily, and Mack still in the common room. The screen was paused on a frozen explosion.
“Well,” Hana said, stretching her arms above her head. “That was… enlightening.” She stood, gathering her things. “Coming, Jay?”
“In a minute,” he said, starting to gather the empty cans.
Hana’s smile was thin. “Sure. Don’t stay up too late.” Her eyes landed on Emily. “Welcome to Shiranui, Emily. Sleep tight.”
She left, her footsteps precise on the stairs.
Mack shoved his headphones on and mumbled a goodnight, ambling out.
Then it was just the two of them in the silent, messy room. The only sound was the hum of the vending machine.
Emily helped him pick up a few stray cushions. The silence was different now. Charged, but not uncomfortable.
“I meant it,” he said, not looking at her. “About telling someone. Even if it’s just… me.”
She nodded, placing a cushion on the sofa. “Okay.”
He straightened, trash bag in hand. “Okay.”
They stood there, in the dim light.
“Goodnight, Jay.”
“Night, Emily.”
She walked to the stairs, feeling his gaze on her back until she turned the corner. The third-floor hallway was quiet, lit by sconces. Her room was at the end. Safe.
As she put her key in the lock, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A cold dread settled in her stomach. She pulled it out.
A message from an unknown number.
Unknown: You can’t just disappear, Em. I see you. Even there.
The words glowed on the screen. Her breath hitched. She looked behind her, down the empty, silent hall. It felt suddenly vast, exposed.
She quickly deleted the message, blocked the number. Her hands were shaking.
Through her window, she could see the light from the common room on the second floor go out. A shadow moved past the window—Jay, heading to the upper floors.
She was alone. But for the first time, alone didn’t feel entirely like being prey.
She had told someone.
Upstairs, in the fifth-floor hallway, Jay leaned against his closed door. He stared at his own phone. He had added a new contact.
Emily K.
He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another.
Jay: If he messages again, screenshot it. Save everything.
He sent it before he could think too much.
On the third floor, Emily’s phone buzzed again. She flinched, then saw his name. She read the message. A fragile sense of solidarity bloomed in her chest, warm against the cold fear.
She typed back.
Emily: I will.
She put the phone down, face-up on her desk. A sentinel. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the bare branches against the window. The old building creaked and settled. Somewhere, a pipe groaned.
The script for tomorrow was unwritten. For now, that was enough.