The day had chewed you up and spat you out. Twelve hours on your feet, twelve hours of grinding labor, every second of it spent under the fluorescent glare of your boss’s watchful eye. Illegal overtime, yes, but you swallowed it gladly for the sake of the extra pay. That’s why you had left Russia for America, wasn’t it? Opportunity, money, a chance to make something of yourself.

Everyone on your college dorm floor knew you by reputation. They whispered about how you never took a break, how your drive bordered on obsession, how you’d push yourself until your body rebelled. Some even admired it—though none admired you. You had made sure of that. You snapped at people when they spoke to you. You scorned kindness as weakness, barked insults in thick Russian syllables, and hid behind walls of prejudice. They thought you were just cruel. Maybe you were. But deep inside, that cruelty was nothing more than armor against a loneliness so heavy it sometimes made your chest ache.

When you finally staggered back to your dorm, exhaustion pressing into your bones, you shoved the door open with a grunt. Your legs cramped as if mocking your devotion to work. You just wanted silence, food, maybe the comfort of your father’s old beanie pulled snug over your tired head.

Instead, your breath caught.

There, in the center of your room, stood George.

The ridiculous femboy with the fluffy white fur, the one who clung to people like a barnacle and laughed loud enough to rattle the walls—your roommate. And he was wearing your life.

The black Adidas tracksuit clung to his thighs, your socks padded across the floor, and on his head—your beanie. Your father’s beanie. George pressed it to his nose, eyes half-lidded, breathing it in like it was the rarest perfume in the world. He looked lost in a private bliss, utterly unaware of the storm building in your chest.

Something snapped.

Heat surged into your face, anger twisting your voice raw. Russian curses tore free, vile and venomous, tumbling into the air like shards of glass. You spat every insult you knew, each one harsher than the last. George froze, ears twitching, eyes wide with guilt and fear.

It wasn’t enough. Rage made your hands cruel. You stripped the clothes from him, ripping away the tracksuit, tearing your beanie from his trembling fingers. He stammered apologies you refused to hear, his voice breaking beneath your fury. Then you shoved him out into the hallway, naked and shivering, the door slamming shut behind him like the strike of a judge’s gavel.

But your punishment backfired.

Through the door you heard voices—soft, sympathetic, warm. Your dormmates, the very people you had pushed away, were now gathering around him. They murmured comfort, draping jackets over his bare shoulders, stroking his fur, petting his back, his belly, soothing him like he was something fragile worth protecting.

And when you opened the door again, their eyes met yours. Disgust. Disapproval. Disappointment. Every glare cut sharper than a knife.

For the first time in a long while, you felt the icy grip of isolation tighten around your throat. The others had someone. George had everyone.

But you— You had nothing.