Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, landing directly on Lisa’s closed eyelids. She groaned, flinging an arm over her face. The smell of instant coffee and yesterday’s ramen hung in the air of their small dorm room. From the lower bunk, she heard the soft, methodical strumming of a guitar.
“Your phone’s been buzzing for ten minutes,” Rose’s voice floated up, sweet and amused. “Sounds angry.”
Lisa peeked over the edge of her bed. Rose was curled on her own messy mattress, a textbook open on her lap and her guitar resting against her knee. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, but a smile played on her lips.
“Probably just the group chat blowing up about the midterm,” Lisa mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She stretched, the hem of her oversized t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned abdomen. She swung her legs over and dropped to the floor with a quiet thud.
“Dance crew practice at four,” Rose said, not looking up from her strings. “You’re leading drills today. No mercy, remember?”
A grin spread across Lisa’s face, sharp and bright. “When do I ever show mercy?” She padded over to their tiny kitchenette, her movements loose and graceful even in sleepiness. She filled the kettle, her back to Rose. “Where’s Jisoo? I thought she was coming over to study.”
“She had an early lecture. She’ll be here later, probably with snacks to distract us.” Rose finally set the guitar aside and watched her friend. “You slept okay?”
The question was casual, but Lisa heard the gentle probe beneath it. She focused on scooping coffee into a filter. “Yeah. Fine. Dreamt I could finally do that perfect windmill. Woke up before I nailed it, though. Typical.”
“Uh-huh.” Rose didn’t push. She knew the rhythms of Lisa’s silence.
The room was quiet for a moment, filled only by the bubbling kettle and the distant sounds of campus coming to life. Lisa’s side of the room was a controlled chaos—dance shoes lined up with military precision beside a pile of laundry, a poster of a complicated-looking choreography sequence tacked to the wall. Rose’s side was softer, dotted with polaroids and small plants she was trying not to kill.
Lisa brought her coffee over and sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against Rose’s bed. The steam warmed her face.
“Okay, what’s the face for?” Rose asked, poking Lisa’s shoulder with her toe.
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m-thinking-too-hard-before-noon’ face. It’s wrinkling your brow. You’ll get premature wrinkles. A tragedy.”
Lisa snorted, sipping her coffee. “There’s a new transfer student. In my advanced choreography seminar.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just… she was looking. In that way.”
Rose’s expression softened. “The way way? Or just, ‘hey-new-person’ way?”
“Hard to tell.” Lisa traced the rim of her mug. Her fingers were long, nails cut short. “She’s from back home. Thai. Name’s Araya.”
The information hung between them. Someone from home meant someone who might know people, who might have heard whispers from a different school, a different time. The old, familiar cold knot began to tighten in Lisa’s stomach.
Rose slid off the bed to sit beside her, their shoulders touching. “So? You’re Lalisa Manoban. You’re the best dancer in the program. You have abs I would kill for, and a smile that literally makes people stop in the hallway. You also have a best friend who thinks you’re awesome.” She bumped Lisa’s shoulder. “And a best friend’s girlfriend who also thinks you’re awesome, and brings snacks.”
Lisa allowed herself to lean into Rose’s solid warmth. The knot loosened, just a fraction. “What if she’s heard stuff, Rosie?”
“Then she’s heard a bunch of lies from small-minded assholes,” Rose said, her voice firm. “You’re just you. That’s the whole thing. The only thing that matters.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Lisa finished her coffee, the caffeine beginning to chase the last shadows of sleep from her mind.
“Alright, enough deep stuff,” Rose announced, springing up. She snatched the empty mug from Lisa’s hands. “We have a midterm to semi-study for and I need you to explain this theory to me again because it makes no sense. And later, you’re going to crush drills at practice and make everyone cry. It’s your destiny.”
Lisa laughed, the sound real and easy. “My destiny is to be a drill sergeant?”
“A beloved drill sergeant.” Rose tossed her a textbook. “Now, educate me.”
The dance studio at four was a temple of focused energy. The mirrored walls reflected twenty sweating, determined bodies syncing to a pounding beat. Lisa moved at the front, her every motion crisp, powerful, and effortlessly precise.
“Again! From the top of the eight-count! Feel the isolation in the chest, don’t just wave your arms!” Her voice carried over the music, not yelling, but sharp and clear.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—tall, boyish, and utterly in command. This was a language she spoke fluently. Here, her body was an instrument, not a question. The complex sequence was a problem to be solved with muscle and rhythm. The worried girl from the morning was gone, replaced by this leader.
As the music faded, the group slumped, gasping. Lisa’s expression broke into a wide, goofy grin. “Not bad! Water break. Five minutes.”
She grabbed her bottle, drinking deeply as the others scattered. That’s when she saw her. Araya was leaning against the barre near the door, watching. She had changed into practice clothes. Her eyes met Lisa’s in the mirror, and she offered a small, tentative smile.
Lisa felt a jolt—part nerves, part something else. She gave a quick, professional nod before turning to correct a first-year’s footwork.
After practice, as Lisa was stuffing her gear into her bag, Araya approached. “You’re an amazing teacher,” she said in Thai. Her voice was melodic. “That combo was insane.”
Lisa switched languages effortlessly. “Thanks. You caught on fast out there. You’ve trained in fon?”
“A little. Mostly contemporary and hip-hop, like everyone.” Araya tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s nice to hear Thai. Makes this place feel less huge.”
“I get that.” Lisa slung her bag over her shoulder. The studio was almost empty. “Well, see you in seminar.”
“Actually,” Araya started, then seemed to hesitate. “A few of us from the class are grabbing tteokbokki. You should come.”
It was a simple invitation. Normal. The kind Lisa usually accepted without a second thought. But the ‘us’ pinged in her brain. Who were the ‘us’? Did any of them know?
Rose’s words echoed in her head. You’re just you.
“Sure,” Lisa said, her smile feeling a bit tight on her face. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
The dorm room was dark and quiet when Lisa finally returned, the spicy scent of street food lingering on her clothes. Rose was asleep, a soft hum escaping her lips. Lisa moved quietly, stripping off her sweaty clothes and pulling on clean sweats.
She stood at the small window, looking out at the few lit windows across the courtyard. The night had been fine. More than fine. Araya was funny, smart about dance, and the conversation had flowed easily. No one had said anything wrong. No looks. Nothing.
But the memory was always there, a scar beneath the skin. The laughter in a different locker room, not friendly but cruel and cutting. The hissed words that stripped her down to a thing, a curiosity. The feeling of her own body turning against her, becoming a source of shame she never asked for.
She’d built herself back up from that, piece by piece. Here, she was Lisa. The dancer. The friend. The goofball with the killer smile. That was her truth.
She crawled into her bunk, the springs creaking softly. She stared at the underside of Rose’s mattress above her, tracing the familiar patterns of cracks in the plaster in the dark.
The fear was a quiet, whispering thing. It wasn’t about Araya, not really. It was about the door opening. It was about the ghost of her past finding a new face, a new name, and walking through it.
Down below, Rose sighed in her sleep and turned over.
Lisa closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of her best friend’s steady breathing, and willed herself to believe, just for tonight, that the door could stay shut.