Zola honestly couldn't remember what happened at the end of that night.
She only remembered the lights melting into a blur, the air turning warm, her heartbeat wound too tight—and then it felt like she stepped into cotton. All the sounds, all the shadows turned into fragments.
When she finally regained consciousness, dawn was slipping through the curtain gap, falling across a clean but unfamiliar guest room.
And she was lying in the guest bed at Emily's place.
Zola moved, and her head throbbed like someone had tapped it with a small hammer. She frowned and pushed herself up, still trying to gather her thoughts when two knocks sounded and Emily pushed the door open.
Emily held a cup of warm water. The moment she saw Zola awake, her lips curled into a smile she couldn't suppress.
"Morning," she said, looking at her like she was some newborn creature. "Still alive?"
Zola lowered her eyes and took the water. "...Don't look at me like that."
Emily sat on the bed and nudged her shoulder with a teasing push.
"Relax, your drunk self was pretty well-behaved. You even managed to follow me. Otherwise, I really wouldn't have known what to do with you."
Zola's face burned instantly. "...What did I even do?"
Emily let out an exaggerated "oh," her smile widening.
"And your little crush wasn't any better. Mike was even more gone than you."
Zola: "M–my little crush??"
Emily snorted, refusing to spare her.
"When I was trying to drag you away yesterday, Mike—God. He clung to you like I was trying to kidnap you."
She mimicked his tone, half teasing and half dramatic:
"Like he just couldn't let you go."
Zola's entire face flushed as if the sun had landed on it. "...I don't remember."
"Of course you don't," Emily crossed her legs, speaking casually.
"You couldn't even keep your eyes open. But you did have principles—drunk or not, you only agreed to come with me."
She paused, giving Zola a look that was far too meaningful. "Such a good girl."
Seeing Zola practically collapse from embarrassment, Emily laughed harder.
"Don't worry, I looked after your little crush too. His friends dragged him away later. He's alive."
"I—I don't have a little crush…" Zola protested weakly.
"Sure, sure," Emily said in the least sincere tone possible, "then who exactly were you clinging to last night?"
She reached over and ruffled Zola's hair. "Come on, get up. You were so pretty last night. No wonder Mike refused to let go."
Zola picked up her phone. No messages from Mike.
Her heart sank—not dramatically, but like an expectation had its tail quietly pinched off.
She refreshed Instagram, pretending it didn't matter.
The first name that popped up wasn't Mike—it was CoCo.
CoCo had posted a whole string of stories from last night.
As Zola watched, her expression turned more and more incredulous.
On camera, CoCo wore flawless makeup, holding champagne, constantly surrounded by people taking selfies. Photos with handsome guys, videos from the center of the dance floor—glowing, confident, like every light in the room was meant for her.
Nothing at all like the girl Zola saw last night, standing by the door clutching two bags, glancing nervously toward Luca and Levi.
Zola wasn't sure whether she felt jealousy or confusion—mostly, it was quiet admiration.
Same night, same party, yet CoCo lived like the star of a film while Zola saw an entirely different version of her.
While Zola stared at her phone, Emily placed the water on the table and leaned over, instantly reading her thoughts.
"Waiting for someone's message?" she asked, eyebrow raised, her tone light but sharp as a blade.
Zola nearly dropped her phone. "I—I'm not—"
"Mm-hmm," Emily said, "of course you're not."
Her eyes slid briefly over Zola's screen. CoCo's stories flashed—filters, smiles, champagne, selfies, lights, people orbiting her.
Emily paused for half a second, catching the contrast.
But she didn't comment. She simply smiled.
"She's an interesting girl."
It was Emily's cold, calm way of evaluating someone.
—
After washing up and leaving Emily's place, Zola returned to her dorm.
The familiar quiet hit her immediately—the faint scent of detergent, the warmth of wooden floors, her scattered books and papers. She breathed in deeply.
Emily's guest room was luxurious, softer than her own bed, but only here did her heart land back where it belonged.
This was her territory: her mess, her order, herself.
Zola hung up her coat, sank into her chair, and felt the tension slowly fade.
Just before the day ended, her phone buzzed.
It was Mike.
Sorry about last night… Got a bit carried away. Hope you don't hate me for it. I'd still really like to see you.
A tiny apologetic kitten emoji followed.
Zola's half-formed irritation dissolved immediately.
The stupid, adorable kitten hit her right in the heart.
She laughed, then felt shy for laughing.
He had gone too far last night, but he really seemed to care what she thought.
Zola tapped the screen lightly—almost like a silent response, almost like she needed to steady herself.
She wasn't sure what she was ready for.
But she did know one thing: she didn't hate him.
She typed only: It's okay.
No emoji, nothing more.
Anything extra might seem eager; anything less would seem cold.
So she let those two words sit there—a cautious kind of softness.
—
Monday arrived anyway.
Three classes—9–11, then a seminar to rush to, then 1–4.
Not a lot on paper, but enough to drain a person dry.
At noon she headed to the department's common room and microwaved the lunch she brought from home. She hated buying food on campus—too expensive. Better to cook herself, save money, cut out the middleman. A matter of principle.
After lunch, she took her laptop and notes to her afternoon class.
Emily texted her to meet at the library at 4:30.
On the way, Zola found herself thinking again about Saturday night.
Emily's messages were always direct, clean. They made Zola feel caught—steadily.
At 4:30, Emily appeared at the library entrance.
She moved with her usual elegance, steps soft and self-possessed like a watchful cat.
Nothing about her suggested she had stayed up late Saturday.
As soon as they walked inside—Zola saw CoCo.
CoCo was surrounded by a group of girls, like a natural spotlight followed her. She was animatedly recounting the party: "who I saw," "which brand they were wearing," "the pool was enormous, like a movie," showing videos—champagne labels, prices, how to open bottles, the lights in the dance floor.
The girls around her gasped and echoed her like falling into her curated world.
Zola watched, unsure what exactly she felt.
Emily saw them too. She didn't speak.
She walked to the nearest table, ran a fingertip lightly across its surface—like clearing away something dirty—and only after that did she sit down.
The gesture was subtle, elegant, dismissive.
Sharper than words.
Zola couldn't help smiling.
Being next to Emily made her feel strangely safe—like all the world's posturing couldn't touch her.
Emily opened her planner and flipped through it casually, then suddenly looked up, tone more serious.
"Zola, you need to start thinking about internships." She tapped the table with calm, steady rhythm, as if annotating Zola's life plan. "This is the crucial time. Not for your résumé—so you don't panic later."
She continued like someone who had already lived the future:
"Every step you take now will make graduation easier."
Zola almost laughed.
They were the same age, yet in the library, Emily became a fusion of real-world experience, career foresight, and life planning.
Sometimes Zola wondered whether Emily was actually older than her in some secret timeline.
Emily went on:
"Don't think it's early. Now you get to choose direction; later, you'll only get leftovers."
Zola's lips curled upward.
Emily sounded like her mother—but also not.
More like a friend who had somehow leveled up a generation ahead of her.
"What are you smiling at?" Emily asked.
"N-nothing… I just think you sound like a real senior."
Emily paused, then smirked.
"Of course. I'm smarter than you."
Zola was speechless, but her heart warmed.
Just then, the neighboring table screeched loudly.
Zola and Emily both turned.
It was CoCo's group.
They had been chatting excitedly seconds ago—but now chaos broke open.
A piercing scream shattered the library's hush:
"She fainted! Oh my God—she fainted!!"
The voice was sharp, panicked, shrill.
Everyone on the floor looked over instantly.
The calm, temperature-controlled library transformed into an alarmed, closed room.
Emily stood at once, brows knitting tightly.
Zola stood too, spine tightening, her heartbeat slamming hard.
"I—I don't know what's happening…"
Her voice trembled.
The girl on the floor was pale, limp—like the life had been drained from her.
CoCo looked terrified, her usual glamorous aura gone.
"She was fine! I was just showing her a video and she suddenly—"
Her voice cracked into sobs.
Emily cut through the panic:
"Notify library staff. Have them call the university security team."
Her tone was calm, sharp, immediately in control.
Library staff rushed over.
Then the campus health and safety team arrived—reflective uniforms, practiced movements.
"Please make space."
"Keep air flowing."
"Who's her friend? Allergies? Anything eaten today?"
"Alcohol? Any medication?"
Questions flew.
Zola froze.
She had never seen something so sudden, so real, so uncontrollable.
Moments ago, the girl was laughing.
And now—
Zola's palms were sweating. Her mind repeated one thought:
This… actually happens in real life?
She looked at Emily.
Emily didn't look scared—just deeply, sharply worried, as if seeing something she never wanted to see.
"Is she… going to be okay?" Zola whispered.
Emily didn't answer right away.
Her eyes stayed on the staff assessing the girl's pulse, adjusting her posture.
Only after a few seconds did she speak quietly:
"She should be. But this… isn't normal."
Zola felt the weight of those words hit her.
The air thickened, tense.
A staff member called out,
"Ambulance is on its way!"
The chaos didn't stop, and Zola's heart sank.
The ambulance arrived quickly.
They lifted the girl onto a stretcher, secured her, gave oxygen.
Cold air rushed in through the open doors, making everyone shiver.
CoCo's eyes were red, but she didn't get on the ambulance—another girl did.
The doors closed.
The siren split the air and carried the panic away.
When the noise faded, the silence felt hollow and wrong.
Zola and Emily watched the ambulance disappear.
Neither spoke.
Emily touched Zola's arm lightly.
"That's enough for today. We'll talk later. Don't stress too much."
Zola nodded, unsure whether she was shaken by the incident or overwhelmed by internship pressure.
They parted.
By the time Zola walked back to her dorm, the sky was dark.
Streetlights cast long shadows on the damp pavement.
Her mind felt blurry.
Inside her small studio, she finally exhaled.
Her familiar cramped space grounded her.
She tossed her coat aside, sat at the desk, and opened her laptop.
Life had to continue.
Internships still needed to be found.
Museum internship. Gallery assistant. Cultural heritage placement.
Search results filled the screen—words she knew, yet felt far away.
Then she opened her CV.
Her heart dropped instantly.
The page was nearly empty—a scatter of high-school clubs, a few course projects, a flimsy volunteer gig.
Compared to peers boasting internships, summer schools, competitions—her CV looked untouched, like a blank page.
Zola rubbed her forehead, trying to comfort herself:
It's fine. I'm only a freshman. It's normal. It's normal. It's normal…
But the more she reassured herself, the bigger the emptiness grew.
Silence wrapped around her room, the screen's glow outlining her small, discouraged figure.
—
Later that week, Zola received dinner invitations from both Emily and Mike.
After thinking it over, she decided to follow order: dinner with Emily first, then a drink with Mike.
Evening wrapped the city in a soft filter.
Warm lights from shopfronts spilled onto the streets; the air was cool with traces of food and night breeze.
Emily was already at the restaurant entrance, typing something on her phone, posture alert yet elegant—always so composed.
"You're here." She looked up with a small, steady smile that somehow grounded Zola.
The Turkish restaurant was small, but entering felt like stepping into a warm embrace.
Grilled meat crackled on iron racks; cumin, mint yogurt, and bread floated in the air.
Blue tiles reflected golden light—a mosaic of warmth.
They had barely sat down when a loud commotion rose from the next table.
A bearded man stood with a raised glass, his friends cheering.
Cake in the middle, candles flickering.
A server beat a small drum and sang a birthday song.
The whole restaurant clapped; even chefs peeked out.
Zola's eyes lit up immediately.
This kind of warm chaos always struck her heart.
Emily noticed.
"You like this kind of atmosphere, don't you?"
Zola looked embarrassed. "Yeah… it feels like everyone belongs together."
Emily studied her.
"You crave closeness."
Zola froze, her heart poked cleanly.
She didn't know if Emily was simply perceptive or far too perceptive.
Either way, being seen that clearly made her flustered.
"That's not a bad thing," Emily added.
"You deserve to be cared for."
Zola stared down at her food, cheeks warm.
The dinner went surprisingly smoothly.
The lamb was tender, the bread smoky with hummus, the yogurt soup perfectly tangy.
Another cheer erupted next to them—more laughter, more clapping.
The birthday man made a wish.
Zola watched, heart melting at the edges.
She longed for that—people calling your name, waiting for you to blow candles, a table gathered just for you.
Emily, seeing her expression, gently pushed a yogurt drink her way.
"Drink this. Your face is red."
"No it's not—"
"It is," Emily said, smiling. "It's cute."
Zola's ears immediately burned.
When they finished, it was already 8 p.m.
Emily paid with familiar decisiveness—always in control.
Outside, the streetlights stretched their shadows.
Zola checked her phone.
A message from Mike:
Tell me when you're close—I'm at the bar.
Emily glimpsed the screen and raised an eyebrow.
"Go. Your boy is waiting."
Zola flushed but nodded. "I'll head over."
Emily reached out, smoothing Zola's hair back from her shoulder.
"Don't drink too much."
For a moment, Zola felt wrapped in gentle, unspoken care.
—
The night breeze was cool as she walked toward the bar.
The neon sign blinked tired red and blue, like a worn-out heartbeat.
Inside, warm air mixed with beer and lemon.
Dim lighting made everyone look softer, a little mysterious.
A small band played in the corner—warm guitar, sandy vocals.
The chatter was low and comforting.
Zola spotted him immediately.
Mike, in a white casual shirt, more relaxed than at the party but still neat.
Top button undone, collarbone showing, a thin gold chain catching light.
Zola's pulse stumbled.
He looked up, saw her instantly, and his face brightened—like someone turned the lights up.
"Zola!"
He waved enthusiastically, unfiltered joy on his face.
She approached the bar stool, and before she could sit—
"I thought you weren't coming," Mike teased.
"I figured maybe Emily kept you for dessert."
She laughed. "We were already full. No dessert."
"Good," he grinned. "Then you can drink with me."
He ordered smoothly, confidently.
The drinks arrived.
Zola reached out—and her fingers brushed his.
A tiny touch.
A spark.
Her face flared; she pulled back too fast, then regretted pulling back too fast.
Mike noticed, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Careful. It's hot."
"…It's not hot," she mumbled.
"I meant me," he said lightly.
"Didn't want you burning yourself."
Zola's blush deepened.
They tapped glasses gently.
The music shifted to something slower.
Mike angled toward her.
"So… how was your day? Exhausting?"
Zola thought. "It was okay… just a lot of people. A lot of talking."
"You don't like loud parties, do you?"
She hesitated. "Not really…"
"Well," he said softly, "tonight is perfect then."
His tone was unexpectedly gentle—nothing like the playful, slightly wicked Mike from parties.
Her heart fluttered.
They talked—classes, clubs, little things in life.
In the dim light, his eyes were soft, focused.
Every time he leaned closer, she smelled clean laundry and faint alcohol.
She rarely drank, but with him beside her, she took another sip.
Time stretched, warm and loose.
At some point, Mike studied her quietly.
"You know," he murmured, "you look even prettier tonight than at the party."
Zola nearly choked.
"I—I didn't even dress up."
"That's why."
His voice was low, sincere.
Her face heated like fire.
This wasn't a party.
No lights, no games, no crowd pushing them together.
It was just Mike.
Looking at her the way he was looking at her.
The bar door opened, letting in a gust of cold air.
But Zola felt everything slow, soften.
The music shifted again.
Low, gentle.
Zola was stirring her drink when she sensed him leaning closer.
"Zola."
His voice was deeper.
She looked up.
Mike hesitated—like gathering courage—and slipped a hand into his shirt pocket.
He looked… nervous.
Finally, he pulled out a small pendant—gold chain, catching soft light.
He held it tightly, as if afraid of dropping it.
"This…" He set the pendant in front of her. Even his ears were red.
"It's not from any fancy brand. Not expensive."
Zola blinked.
"I saw it the other day," he said, swallowing.
"And the first thing I thought was—this looks like you."
Something in Zola's chest softened painfully.
He opened the pendant to show a delicate carved pattern inside.
"I don't know if you'll like it. Maybe it's impulsive. But I just… felt it suited you."
Then he looked away, tense, as if bracing for rejection.
The boy who joked effortlessly at parties now looked shy because of a necklace.
Zola stared, stunned.
She had received gifts before, but never something like this—so unpolished, so sincere, so teenage-feeling.
"For… for me?" Her voice was barely a breath.
Mike finally met her eyes.
"Yeah. It's yours."
Her fingers touched the chain, and her heart nearly melted.
"I… thank you."
Her voice softened to a whisper.
Mike let out a breath—relieved.
"I'm glad you like it."
His smile lit the whole bar.
Zola was still staring at the pendant when Mike lightly tapped her hand.
"Can I… put it on you?"
She froze—then nodded, shy but willing.
Mike's throat bobbed.
He moved behind her, slow, careful.
He brushed her hair aside—his fingers grazing the back of her neck.
Zola inhaled sharply.
That spot was too soft, too sensitive.
The cool chain slid against her skin; his warm fingertips steadied it.
"Done," he said softly.
Zola touched the pendant against her chest.
Her heart beat too fast, too loud.
She lifted her head to thank him—but Mike's gaze locked on her.
Not on the necklace.
On her.
His eyes held something serious, nervous.
"Zola."
Her name sounded different in his voice.
She looked up. "Yes?"
He took a breath—like stepping off a ledge.
"I like you."
No jokes. No hesitation.
Just truth.
"Not party-drunk liking. Not friendly liking."
His voice was steady, but his eyes were careful.
"I mean I really… want to be with you."
Zola froze.
A bright, white shock wiped her thoughts clean.
"Zola," he said softly, "will you be my girlfriend?"
She opened her mouth—but no words came.
The lights, the music, the noise—they blurred into one distant hum.
Her heart teetered between sweet warmth and terrifying emptiness.
"I…" Her voice trembled. "I need to think."
Something flickered across Mike's face—hurt—but he didn't retreat.
He nodded slowly.
"Okay."
He forced a small, crooked smile.
"Think. But I hope… you won't take too long. I want us to start enjoying good moments sooner."
Zola curled her fingers around the pendant, her heart fluttering wildly.
She had no idea what to do.