The heavy oak door thudded closed behind Silver, cutting off the sounds of the courtyard but not the memory of Eli's voice. Welcome to Yale. The words lodged somewhere between her ribs like an unwelcome splinter, refusing to be ignored. She shoved the feeling down and limped toward the staircase that would carry her to whatever version of normal college life awaited.
The residential college hallway stretched before her like something from a Harry Potter movie—narrow and dimly lit, with worn wooden floors that creaked under every footstep. The air carried the distinctive scent of old wood polish mixed with industrial cleaning supplies and the lingering traces of too many teenagers crammed into spaces designed for medieval scholars. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, their harsh light doing nothing to soften the Gothic atmosphere.
Already, barely six hours into move-in day, the corridor had taken on the chaotic personality of freshman year. Colorful posters plastered every door she passed: "Yale Whiffenpoofs Auditions," "Women's Rugby Welcome BBQ," "Pre-Med Study Group Forming Now." Someone's stereo thumped bass through thin walls, while another room leaked the sounds of what sounded like a very animated phone call home. The energy was infectious in a way that made Silver feel even more isolated—all these people diving headfirst into their Yale experience while she was just trying to figure out how to walk without wincing.
She found her assigned room number etched into a brass nameplate that had probably been polished by generations of students. The old-fashioned key fought her for a moment, requiring the kind of jiggling technique that suggested centuries of use, before the lock finally surrendered with a metallic click.
The room beyond was smaller than her walk-in closet back home in Atlanta, but somehow it felt more real. Two narrow beds faced each other across a space barely wide enough for both occupants to stand simultaneously. Tall Gothic windows looked out over the courtyard where she'd nearly face-planted twenty minutes earlier, their diamond-paned glass casting geometric shadows across hardwood floors that had probably witnessed more late-night study sessions than she could imagine.
One bed had already been claimed with a precision that spoke of military-level organization: floral duvet spread smooth as glass, a small mountain of coordinating throw pillows arranged with mathematical accuracy, desk supplies lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. The other bed stood bare and expectant, a blank canvas waiting for whatever personality Silver might bring to this new chapter.
Her duffel bag hit the unclaimed mattress with a dull thump that seemed to echo in the unexpected quiet. After months of arenas filled with music and coaches shouting corrections, after hospitals buzzing with machinery and doctors speaking in urgent whispers, the silence felt almost oppressive. For one wild moment, she entertained the hope that maybe she'd lucked into a single room, that her mysteriously organized roommate was just a very neat person who'd already moved out.
Then the door exploded inward like a glitter bomb had gone off in the hallway.
"Roomieeee!"
Silver nearly jumped clear out of her post-surgical brace. The girl who burst through the doorway wasn't so much a person as a force of nature—a hurricane wrapped in sequins and pure, undiluted enthusiasm. Her crop top caught light like a disco ball, throwing tiny rainbows across the stone walls. Her skirt seemed to be made entirely of some material that sparkled with every movement, and her hair—dark brown curls streaked with what appeared to be professionally applied magenta highlights—bounced with the kind of energy that suggested she'd just chugged three Red Bulls.
Behind her came chaos in physical form: an enormous suitcase covered in stickers from what looked like every Broadway show of the past decade, a garment bag that was leaking feathers, and an armload of accessories that defied both gravity and good taste.
Silver opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. No sound emerged.
"Americus Bentley!" The girl thrust out a hand that glittered with rings on every finger—some delicate, others chunky enough to double as weapons. "Yes, like the continent. No, I don't know what my parents were thinking. Yes, I've heard every joke. No, I don't care because it's iconic and you know it."
Silver found herself shaking the offered hand before her brain caught up with the situation. "Silver Preston."
Americus's eyes—lined with enough mascara to supply a small theater production—went wide as dinner plates. "Silver? Are you kidding me right now? That's the most elegant name I've ever heard in my actual life. Like, Olympic medal elegant. You sound famous already."
Silver's stomach clenched reflexively. "I'm not."
But Americus had already moved on, spinning toward the unclaimed bed with the kind of dramatic flair that belonged on a stage. She launched herself onto the mattress like she was claiming territory, and immediately a shower of loose sequins scattered across the plain institutional bedding.
"This room is absolutely tragic," she announced, surveying their surroundings with the critical eye of someone who took interior design very seriously. "We're going to need fairy lights—lots of them. And posters, but not the generic college ones. Something with personality. A rug, definitely something fluffy that screams 'successful coeds live here.' Oh! And candles. Wait." She paused, tilting her head. "Are candles allowed in the dorms? Actually, who cares. We'll live dangerously."
Silver lowered herself carefully onto her own bed, extending her braced leg with the kind of conscious precision that had become second nature. She wasn't entirely sure what to make of this whirlwind in human form who'd just reorganized her expectations of college roommate dynamics.
Americus propped herself up on one elbow, studying Silver with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly intriguing puzzle. "So what's your thing? Please tell me you have a thing. Sports? Theater? Secret underground DJ career? Competitive chess? I'm literally dying to know."
The question caught Silver off guard. Back home, her 'thing' had been so obvious it barely needed stating. Everyone knew Silver Preston: the figure skater, the Olympic hopeful, the girl whose entire identity could be summed up in one word—champion. Now, sitting on a narrow dorm bed with her reconstructed knee throbbing, she wasn't sure she had a thing anymore.
"None of those."
"None?" Americus looked genuinely scandalized, like Silver had just announced she didn't believe in gravity. "No, no, absolutely not. Everyone has a thing. It's like, the fundamental rule of college. Mine's musical theater slash event planning slash being generally fabulous. And glitter, obviously." She waved her hand in demonstration, releasing a fresh shower of sparkles onto the floor. "Glitter is basically my signature."
Despite herself, Silver felt the corner of her mouth twitch upward. "Glitter counts as a thing?"
"Glitter is the thing," Americus declared with the solemnity of someone making a religious proclamation. "It's joy in physical form. It's impossible to be sad when you're covered in sparkles. Science fact."
Then her gaze drifted downward, landing on Silver's knee brace with the kind of recognition that made Silver's defenses snap back into place. But instead of pity or awkward questions, Americus's expression shifted into something that might have been impressed curiosity.
"Okay, injury backstory time. Please tell me it's something epic. Like, 'I fought off a bear while saving orphans' epic. Or at least 'extreme sport gone wrong' epic."
Silver's throat tightened. "Skating accident."
The two words hung in the air between them like a confession. Americus's eyes went wide again, but this time with genuine excitement rather than shock.
"Skating? Like hockey? Or—oh my god—figure skating?"
Silver didn't answer, which apparently was answer enough. Americus actually squealed, grabbing one of her perfectly arranged pillows and hugging it to her chest like she'd just been told Christmas was coming early.
"Roomie, are you being serious right now? That's incredible! Did you do the spinny things? The jumpy things? That move where they go around and around and somehow don't fall down even though physics says they should?"
"Triple jumps and spins," Silver muttered, surprised to find herself almost smiling at Americus's unabashed enthusiasm.
"YES! Those!" Americus bounced on her bed hard enough to make the ancient frame creak in protest. "Oh my god, you're officially the coolest person I have ever met in my entire seventeen years of existence. This is destiny. We're going to be best friends. I can feel it."
The declaration was so matter-of-fact, delivered with such absolute certainty, that Silver found herself blinking in bewilderment. She'd been at Yale for exactly three hours. She hadn't even unpacked. And this human sparkler had already decided they were destined for friendship based on... what? Shared living space and a few questions about figure skating?
Americus must have seen the skepticism written across Silver's face because she grinned wider, if such a thing were physically possible. "Don't fight it, Preston. Resistance is futile. Besides—" She gestured to herself with obvious pride. "Glitter's contagious. You'll be bedazzled within the week."
Despite everything—the pain in her knee, the uncertainty about her future, the memory of hazel-green eyes that had seen too much—Silver felt something crack open in her chest. Something that might have been the beginning of actual laughter.
Maybe chaos wasn't the worst possible roommate to have.
Americus flopped back onto her bed with characteristic drama, arms spread wide like she was making snow angels in sequins. The late afternoon light caught every glittery surface, turning their small dorm room into a kaleidoscope of reflected color.
"Trust me, roomie," she said, her voice warm with the kind of confidence that suggested she'd never met a stranger she couldn't befriend. "We're going to be absolutely legendary together."