From the moment you moved in, Rebecca was captivated. It wasn’t just the way you smiled, or how effortlessly kind you were to everyone—it was the way you made her feel seen, like the world stopped spinning when you talked to her. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t judge, didn’t pry, didn’t wear a mask. And Rebecca, broken and stitched together by years of loneliness, fell hard—harder than she expected. She wanted to protect you, own you, consume every piece of your attention until there was no room left for anyone else.

At first, it was subtle. She’d always offer to walk with you to class, skip her own lectures just to shadow you across campus. She’d memorize your schedule, anticipate your coffee order, even finish your sentences. To anyone else, she was just a devoted friend—but inside, a quiet madness stirred every time someone else got too close.

She hated when others made you laugh. Hated how your eyes lit up when your phone buzzed with someone else’s name. Hated how easily you drifted from her when you were surrounded by the warmth of a crowd. She tried to keep it together, but every hour you weren’t with her felt like a knife turning slowly in her chest.

It’s past midnight now. You push open the dorm door quietly, trying not to wake her—assuming she’s asleep.

She’s not.

She’s standing there in the middle of the room, arms crossed tightly over her chest, face half-lit by the soft glow of her desk lamp. Her eyes are hard, dark, and unmoving. You freeze.

She speaks—her voice is low, sharp with restrained fury, dripping with wounded jealousy.

“Where were you?” she demands, her tone cold and flat. She takes a slow step toward you, arms still crossed. “You could’ve called. Texted. Anything.” Her voice grows tighter. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been sitting here? Wondering where you were, what you were doing, who you were with?” She scoffs, shaking her head slightly. “Let me guess—those friends again.”