Someone once told me that our past is what makes us who we are today. I've always wanted to believe that—it sounds so neat, so tidy, like a story with a clear beginning.
But I'm not sure people work that way. I mean, everyone always says so. And okay, maybe it does—but it doesn't get the final say. There's more to us than just the stuff we've been through. We can look at another person and feel with them, even if their life looks nothing like ours. That ability—empathy—it's what makes us human. It's what gives us dignity, I believe. I've been fascinated by it for as long as I can remember. Maybe that's why I'm here now, standing on this campus with my lead-filled backpack, about to spend the next four years trying to understand what makes people tick.
My name is Hannah. I'm nineteen, and this is my first day at the University of Michigan. If you saw me walking across campus, you probably wouldn't notice me—and that's okay, really. I'm a little shorter than my peers. I wear round wire-rimmed glasses that are forever sliding down my nose, and I have this habit, clutching the straps of my backpack like it might run away if I let go. My mother says I walk with my head down, that I need to look people in the eye more. She's probably right. She's surely noticed the way I sleep, too—curled up tight, like a dog protecting its belly. Even in sleep, I'm bracing for something.
Makeup has barely been my thing. I've tried, a few times, but I always end up looking like someone who watched a tutorial once and then closed their eyes and hoped for the best. I'm not blind to the way the rules work—I know that pretty girls get smiled at more, get called "sweetheart" in coffee shops, get forgiven faster when they mess up. But that kind of attention never lasts. It's fading with time. And sometimes, I wonder if the people giving it are even really seeing the person in front of them, or just the packaging.
Sometimes I become curious about pearls. How they live tucked away in their shells, deep in the ocean where it's dark and quiet and nothing can touch them. Safe. I understand that. I understand wanting to disappear like that, to just be still and hidden and untouched.
But hiding only gets you so far. And I've got something bigger in the works. Like, big big. I'm going to be a psychologist—a good one. Like Julia Hinton. She's my lighthouse, and has been in the field for over twenty years, working with kids who've been through things no one should have to go through. Last year, she won the APA's Distinguished Scientific Contribution Award, which is basically the highest honor you can get in psychology. When I heard she won, I got this grin on my face. Not because I know her or anything. Just because it hit me: people actually do this. They spend their lives helping kids, figuring things out, and then one day they get that call. And yeah, maybe someday that could be me.
But first, I have to make it through freshman year.
I made my way to the dorm. It is beautiful, in an old, serious kind of way. Red brick faded to a warm rust, ivy climbing one side like it's been there for decades. I stand outside for a moment, just looking up at it, my stomach already doing that butterfly dance it always does when something important is about to happen. My dad's driving over with my luggage—He's bringing it all in his old Toyota, the one he's had for years, that I can't remember. It is still running somehow. But I couldn't wait. I wanted to see the room. Meet my roommate.
Please let her be nice.
Third floor. First door on the left past the stairs.
On the stairwell, a girl with blonde hair turns around and catches my eye. And then she just... smiles. Like, genuinely smiles, not the weird polite thing people do when they don't know what to do with their face. "Are you a freshman?" she asks. I nod. "Same! Oh my god, I'm so nervous, are you nervous?" She's all warmth, all energy. For a second I think—maybe she's the one. Maybe she's my roommate. But she keeps going up, past the third floor, and I watch her disappear. A few more girls pass me, laughing about something, their voices bouncing off the walls. And then it's quiet again.
I reach my door. Room 312. I'm reaching for my key when I notice it's already slightly open. Not locked. Someone's inside.
A smell hits me before I can even push the door all the way open.
Alcohol. Sharp and sour and stale, like it's been soaking into the air for hours. I blink, fumbling for the light switch, and when the fluorescents flicker on—
A girl is on the bed by the window. Face-down, short dark hair spilling across the pillow, wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans like she just collapsed mid-step. Completely still. Asleep. Or passed out, more like. The smell is coming off her in waves.
And then my breath catches. Her neck—
A tattoo. Black lines curling up from under her collar, winding around the side of her throat. A dragon, maybe? I can't quite tell—the lines are too intricate, too tangled. But it's not some cheap impulse tattoo. It's detailed. Careful. Like someone took their time marking her.
I stand there for a moment, frozen, my backpack still strapped on. This is my roommate. This girl, whoever she is, drunk and unconscious on our first day!
Something uneasy settles in my chest.
I force myself to look away, to actually see the space we're supposed to share. It's small—smaller than I expected—but it's got everything we need. Two beds: mine on the left, hers by the window. Between them, a window looks out over campus, closed, pale gold light spilling in. Underneath, a desk with a chair tucked in. Against the wall, a tall bookcase, empty and waiting.
Across from the beds, a door. I push it open and find a narrow hallway—a closet on one side, a bathroom on the left that's barely big enough to turn around in—and at the end, a kitchenette. It's tiny, almost comically so. Mini-fridge, two burners, a microwave that looks older than me. And next to it, another door leading out to a small balcony.
I step outside for just a second, letting the cool air wash over me. The campus spreads out below, all green and gold in the late afternoon light. Peaceful. Quiet.
My phone buzzes. Dad.
"Han, come downstairs," he says. "Where do you want all this?"
I jog down. His car is parked at the curb, trunk gaping open, my whole belongings stuffed into two suitcases and three duffel bags that look like they're about to burst. He's already lifting one out, his gray-streaked hair catching the light.
"I can take it," I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. "You don't have to come up."
He gives me that look—the one that says he's not convinced. "These are heavy, Han."
"I know. But I need to do this myself. I have to learn to be independent sometime."
He huffs a quiet laugh—not mocking, just tired—and swings the duffel onto his shoulder anyway. "You can be independent next time. Come on, lead the way."
I grab a suitcase and start walking, my heart hammering. Please don't go in the room. Please just leave it at the door.
At the threshold, I stop. "Here is fine. Just leave it here."
He frowns. "Inside would make more sense."
"My roommate's sleeping. I don't want to wake her up—first impressions, you know?" I try to smile. It feels thin on my face.
He studies me for a second, then nods. "Alright. I'll grab the rest."
While he's gone, I crack the door and peek inside. She hasn't moved. Still face-down, still completely still. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Dad returns with the last bags. He sets them down, then pulls me into a quick hug. "Take care of yourself, okay? Sara wanted to come, but she had to take a visit to your poor grandma. You know how she is." He squeezes my shoulder. "Call if you need anything."
"I will."
He hesitates. Then—before I can stop him—he picks up one of the duffels and pushes the door open. "Let me at least put this—"
He stops.
I see his face change. The slight furrow of his brow, the way his eyes widen just a fraction.
"Dad, I told you she was sleeping—"
He's staring at her. At the smell. At the ink curling up her neck. At the way she's lying there like she's been dropped from a height.
"That your roommate?" His voice is careful. Too careful.
"Yeah." I tug his sleeve. "Come on. I'll walk you out."
He lets me guide him back into the hall, but he glances over his shoulder once, twice. At the stairs, he stops. "Hannah. You sure you're okay with this?"
"She's just... it's been a long day, probably. It's fine."
He doesn't look convinced. But he nods, hugs me again, and heads down the stairs. I watch until that beat-up Toyota of his turns at the far end of the road and vanishes, then lean against the wall and press my hand to my chest. My heart is still pounding.
I slipped back inside and stopped. The room was no longer still. From her bed came the sound of someone surfacing—slow, heavy, disoriented.
She's shifted. Rolled onto her side, facing me now. Her eyes are still closed, but her hand lifts, reaching out blindly.
"Hey," I say softly. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes flutter open—just for a second. They're glassy, unfocused, like she's looking at me from very far away. "Bathroom," she mumbles. "I need to—"
She lunges. And before I can even flinch—blam. All over me. Face. Shirt. Hair. I just stand there, frozen, feeling it drip down my chin.
I gasp, stumbling backward. It's warm and sour and I can feel it dripping down my chin, spotting my glasses. I run for the bathroom, turn the faucet on full blast, scrub my face with handfuls of water. My shirt is ruined. I peel it off, grab a towel, wipe myself down as best I can.
When I come back out, she's still vomiting—into the trash can this time. I must have slid it next to her without thinking. The whole room reeks now, sharp and acidic, and I rush to throw the window open, let the cold air flood in.
She lifts her head. Looks at me with those wrecked eyes. "Sorry," she whispers.
Then she crumples back onto the bed, unconscious again.
I stand there for a moment, dripping, wearing a fresh shirt I grabbed from my duffel, and just... look at her. She looks smaller now, somehow. Less like a stranger and more like someone who's lost.
Then I get to work.
Okay. Trash can to the bathroom. Empty it into the toilet. Flush. Cleaning stuff—under the sink, got it. Scrub the floor where she missed. Wipe the bed frame. Window all the way open. Please let the smell fade before tonight. Please.
I'm just about to start unpacking when her phone buzzes.
It's on the nightstand next to her bed. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. The same name flashing each time.
Finally, I pick it up.
"Hello?"
A pause. Then a guy's voice—surprised, sharp at the edges. "Uh... who's this? Where's Rachel?"
Rachel. That's her name.
"I'm Hannah," I say quietly. "I'm her roommate. She's... she drank a lot. She's passed out right now."
Another pause. "Shit. Okay. I'll come check on her."
"Are you her boyfriend?"
"Yeah…something like that."
That sounded off. Whatever—not my problem right now.
"I'm on my way."
"Okay."
I hang up and set the phone back down. Rachel doesn't move. Her face is almost peaceful now, like nothing happened.
I look at her for a long moment. At the ink on her neck. At the long sleeves covering her arms, even in sleep. I wonder what she's hiding under there. I wonder what brought her here. I wonder if she's as lost as she looks.
I hope he takes good care of her.
I hope someone does.