Iris:
The house was still when I left.
Not quiet—still.
Like the walls were holding their breath, listening to see if I'd really go this time.
My suitcase was already in the backseat, half-zipped, packed in silence after midnight. I'd waited until the yelling stopped, until the television turned off and his footsteps faded down the hall. That was the only kind of peace we ever had—when he was too drunk to stand.
I stood by the doorway for a minute, my hand on the knob, heart hammering so hard I thought it might wake him.
His boots were still by the couch. The ashtray full. A bottle on its side.
Same scene, different day.
"Goodbye," I whispered, even though he couldn't hear me.
Even though part of me didn't mean it.
The screen door creaked when I pushed it open, and I froze. But nothing moved inside. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock that had measured every second I'd spent wanting to leave.
Outside, the air was thick and cold with fog. The old porch boards groaned under my feet as I stepped down. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the keys.
When I slid into the driver's seat, the steering wheel felt rough and foreign. I hadn't even told him I'd been accepted to Blair Ridge University. He wouldn't have cared. Or maybe he would've—if only because it meant one less thing he could control.
The engine started on the second try.
I didn't look back until I reached the end of the dirt road.
The house was still there, just a shadow against the dawn. The same peeling paint. The same broken porch light. The place where I learned that silence could hurt just as much as shouting.
I turned the corner and left it behind.
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
Ivy.
She'd texted all night, worried, probably sitting cross-legged on her bed with that anxious twist in her copper hair she always did when she didn't know what to say.
Ivy: You sure you don't want me to come get you?
Me: No. I'm fine.
Ivy: You always say that.
She wasn't wrong.
I always said it because the truth never made things better.
She didn't know that two nights ago, my father had thrown a glass against the wall because I told him I'd be leaving soon. She didn't know the bruise on my arm wasn't from bumping a door.
She didn't know about the guilt in her own voice when she called me last week—like she was hiding something she couldn't bear to tell me.
So I let her lie.
And I let her think I was fine.
The drive to Blair Ridge was long—five hours of twisting roads through the Kentucky hills. The kind that wound between forests and quiet rivers, where every turn looked the same until it didn't.
For the first time, the quiet was mine.
No yelling. No footsteps. No glass breaking in the other room.
Just the hum of the road, the soft thud of my heart, and the slow realization that I was really gone.
I wanted to believe that meant I was free.
But even then, I knew—freedom didn't erase the scars. It just made them easier to hide.By the time I reached Blair Ridge University, the sun was high and cruel. The August heat pressed against the windows, and the car's air conditioner wheezed in protest.
The main campus rose ahead—red brick buildings half-swallowed by ivy, old oak trees swaying over sidewalks lined with nervous freshmen and their parents. The kind of place that looked like it had stories already written into the walls.
I parked at the edge of the quad and just sat there for a minute, my fingers locked around the steering wheel. My reflection in the windshield didn't look like someone starting over. It looked like someone pretending to.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "You're fine."
It was the same lie I'd always told, but this time, maybe it could be true.
Inside the dorm lobby, it smelled like lemon cleaner and nerves. A girl behind the check-in table smiled like she'd been doing it all day.
"Name?" she asked.
"Iris Blackthorn."
She scanned her list and slid me a key. "Blair Hall, room 212. You'll be sharing with… Lena Moore."
I nodded, tucking the key into my palm.
The metal felt cold and unfamiliar. Like something that could open a new life—or remind me how easily doors can close.
Room 212 was on the second floor, sunlight spilling through the open window.
And there she was—Lena Moore.
Brown hair tied in a messy bun, legs crossed on the bed surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, a playlist humming softly through her phone. She looked up the second I appeared in the doorway and smiled so wide it almost hurt to look at.
"You must be Iris!" she said, standing up like she'd been waiting for this moment all morning. "Finally! I was hoping you weren't another girl who only listens to crime podcasts and cries into ramen."
I blinked. "Not usually?"
She laughed, bright and warm, and something in me eased just a little.
"I'm Lena," she said, reaching out a hand. "I'm from L.A., and I've already gotten lost twice, so you're officially smarter than me if you made it here without crying."
"I came close," I admitted, shaking her hand.
"Good. That's healthy," she said, grinning.
She moved around the room with easy confidence, humming as she unpacked, telling me about her brother—Hunter—who went to Blair Ridge too and was already part of some fraternity with his friends.
When she turned back to me, her eyes were soft but curious. "So what about you?"
I hesitated, pretending to fuss with my suitcase. "Small town. Not much to tell."
That was my go-to answer. The truth never sounded as simple.
"Well, then we'll make sure you have something to tell by the end of the semester," Lena said. "Starting with tonight."
"Tonight?"
She nodded, mischief glinting in her brown eyes. "There's a bonfire by the river. Whole campus goes. You're not getting out of it."
"I don't really do parties," I said quietly.
"You're not spending your first night in college stuck in our dorm room," she said firmly. "You only get one first night."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she was already tossing open her closet. "You're borrowing something cute, end of discussion."
When the sun started to dip, Lena handed me a soft lilac tank top and a light denim skirt. "It's still hot out. Trust me, you'll thank me later."
I looked at the outfit, hesitating. "It's… nice."
"That's the idea," she said, smirking.
Maybe she was right. Maybe tonight, I could pretend to be someone new—someone whose scars didn't still burn under her sleeves.
The field by the river was already glowing when we got there. Music pulsed through the air, mixing with laughter and the crackle of the fire.
I spotted her almost instantly.
Ivy King.
Her copper hair shimmered in the firelight, her familiar grin bright and sharp. She turned when she heard my name.
"Iris!" she called, already moving through the crowd to hug me.
I stiffened for a second, then melted into it. She smelled the same—like citrus and vanilla and something a little reckless.
"You made it," she said, eyes glassy with excitement—or maybe relief. "Oh my god, I've been waiting all day."
Before I could answer, she noticed Lena at my side. "So you're the new roommate," Ivy said, offering a hand. "I'm Ivy. Iris's better half."
Lena laughed. "I'll fight you for the title."
For a moment, it was easy. Like we could actually be normal girls under a normal sky. But then Ivy looked away—too fast, too bright—and I knew there was something she wasn't saying.
I didn't know it yet, but she'd already been hiding from me long before I arrived.
The bonfire roared higher as the night thickened around it. Sparks lifted into the dark like fireflies, the river behind us a silver ribbon under the moonlight.
Lena was already pulled into conversation with a group of upperclassmen, her laughter ringing above the music. Ivy had disappeared somewhere into the crowd, her copper hair flickering near the edge of the firelight.
I stood back, close enough to feel the heat on my skin but far enough to pretend I wasn't completely out of place.
That's when I heard a voice—low, easy, teasing.
"You look like you're planning an escape route."
I turned.
He was tall, wearing a gray T-shirt and a lazy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. His hair was dark, messy in a way that looked intentional.
"Maybe I am," I said, forcing a small smile.
"Hunter," he said, offering his hand. "You're Lena's roommate, right?"
I blinked in surprise. "Yeah. You're her brother?"
"Unfortunately for her," he said, smiling wider. "She told me you were shy. Didn't say you were hiding by the fire like a ghost."
"I'm not hiding," I said, though my voice was soft.
"Sure," he said, tilting his head. "You just prefer watching from the shadows."
Before I could think of a comeback, Lena appeared beside us, cheeks flushed from dancing. "Oh good, you found her," she said to Hunter. "Now she has no excuse to leave early."
"I wasn't leaving," I said.
Hunter smirked. "Not yet."
Lena rolled her eyes. "Ignore him. He thinks sarcasm is a personality."
Hunter leaned closer. "It's gotten me this far."
Something about him made my stomach twist—equal parts charm and danger. But before I could untangle it, another voice cut through the noise.
"Hunter," someone called from behind him.
He turned slightly, and that's when I saw him.
He wasn't smiling. He didn't need to. His presence alone felt heavy, like the air shifted to make room for him. His eyes—gray, storm-dark—flicked from Hunter to me and lingered just a heartbeat too long.
"This is Sawyer," Hunter said casually. "My friend, roommate, and professional buzzkill."
Sawyer barely nodded. "Nice to meet you."
His voice was quiet, but it carried. It settled under my skin, unfamiliar but… familiar somehow.
"Hi," I said.
He studied me for a second longer, then looked away, taking a drink from his cup.
After a while, when no one was paying attention, I slipped away again—down the narrow trail toward the river. The firelight faded behind me, replaced by the soft hum of crickets and water.
I crouched by the edge, dipping my fingers into the cold stream, watching how it scattered the light. It felt grounding, like something pure in a world that suddenly felt too loud.
Then I heard a footstep.
I turned—and there he was again. Sawyer.
He stood just far enough away to keep me guessing why he was there.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said.
"You didn't."
"Then you knew I was here?"
I shook my head. "No. I just don't scare easy."
That made him smile—barely.
He stepped closer, eyes glinting under the firelight. "You don't like parties?"
"I like quiet," I said.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Me too."
The silence stretched. The water moved. His hand lifted slightly, like he wanted to touch me but wasn't sure if he was allowed. For a second, I thought he might.
But he didn't.
"I should go," he said softly.
And then he turned, walking back toward the light and laughter, leaving me alone with the sound of the river and the ghost of something that hadn't happened—but already felt impossible to forget.I stayed there for a while, staring at the place where he'd stood. The air felt heavier now, like the night was holding its breath. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed—high, sharp, and fleeting.
But then I heard something else.
A voice, faint and low, carried on the wind.
My name.
I turned, heart pounding, eyes searching the dark. Nothing. Just the river, whispering secrets to the shore.