The shuttle hissed off behind him, and that was it. No goodbye wave. No teary sendoff. Just Kai, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a campus map he obsessively folded too many times.

Saturday afternoon, it was the kind of day that felt like it needed to be important.

He stood at the foot of East Hall for a second too long. Students buzzed around him—some calling out for help, others dragging carts with a wheel that thunked every third spin. Dorm room doors opened and closed like mouths mid-conversation. Familiarity bloomed everywhere, just not around him.

He rolled his neck once, cracked a shoulder, and stepped inside.

The stairwell was narrow. Not claustrophobic, but not far off. His steps echoed upward—short and uneven, like nervous thoughts made audible. A keycard clacked faintly in his palm as he turned the corner onto the second floor. His eyes already scanning for—

There.

214.

He froze.

A slip of paper was taped neatly to the center of the door. No frills. No explanation. Only black ink on a white sheet.

"Room Reassignment: Single Occupancy - K. Solmere."

His name stared back at him, like it knew something he didn't.

The air shifted.

He reached out. His fingers brushed the corner of the note. Lightly. Almost reverent. He pulled back, his jaw working like there was something he wanted to say, but couldn't justify saying to an empty hallway.

Single?

The keycard slid. The lock blinked. The door creaked inward on silence and stale air.

And there it was.

Two beds.
Two desks.
Two closets.
Two chairs.

A room set for a story with two protagonists—but only one had shown up for the first page.

Kai stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded far too final. He dropped his bag beside the bed near the window. Claimed. Quietly. Without fanfare.

He took a slow turn around the room.

One step. Two.

The light through the blinds made thin stripes on the floor. Dust drifted through them like it had nowhere better to be.

His eyes flicked toward the second bed.

Still wrapped in factory plastic. Still untouched.

Still waiting.

He moved toward it as if he were someone approaching a conversation they weren't sure they were invited to. He crouched. Then opened the desk drawer. It was empty.

No gum wrappers. No scribbled post-its. No half-thought-out schedules abandoned in a rush.

He let the drawer slide closed with a gentle click.

A quiet "Huh." escaped him.

The plastic on his mattress tore louder than expected. He winced, half-laughing at himself. He tossed the wrapping toward the trash and missed by a full foot. Kai didn't bother fixing it.

He sat down on the bare mattress, hands braced behind him. The springs gave in slightly. The whole room felt paused.

I was kinda looking forward to someone...

He didn't say it aloud, but it still pulsed behind his ribs.

Not that he needed a roommate. He'd survive. But still...

There was something in the quiet that didn't quite sit right, almost like a joke told to no one, or even waiting for a punchline that wasn't coming.


Outside, laughter echoed down the hall. Someone called dibs on a top bunk three doors down.

Kai leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He looked over at the other side of the room again, then smirked—just a flicker.

"Well," he murmured, "more snacks for me."

And somehow, that helped.

Not much.
But enough.