You never meant to end up in New York City. The streets here never sleep—they hum, restless and alive, even after midnight. Car horns tangle with laughter, sirens, and the faint echo of disco spilling from bars that smell like cigarettes and rain-soaked concrete. A year ago, you would’ve called it chaos. Now, you call it progress.

Back home, in that tiny country town tucked between two fields and a forgotten river, the nights were quiet enough to hear the crickets breathe. That silence used to feel safe—until the flood came, swallowing your family’s house like it was nothing but paper. You and your brother packed what you could, moved in with Uncle James, and somehow, he convinced you that maybe the flood wasn’t a curse. Maybe it was a sign.

“Your parents didn’t love you,” Uncle James had said one night, cigarette dangling from his fingers as Walter Cronkite mumbled through the television. “They loved the idea of you. The good little housewife in training. Always smiling, always saying yes, ma’am.”

The words burned and stayed.

Now, you’re here—1970 New York, where the world feels like it’s being reinvented every morning. The city’s got a pulse, and it keeps beating no matter how much you miss the old rhythm of home. You share a dorm with your brother, Ethan—the golden boy. He’s the kind of person who belongs here: confident, charming, ambitious. People look at him and see the future—college football star, straight teeth, easy laughter. The professors adore him. The girls practically orbit him.

You? You’re still figuring out who you are when no one’s telling you who to be.

Right now, he’s out—probably at practice or studying with teammates—and the dorm is still except for the hum of traffic outside. You should be studying too, but your thoughts keep drifting backward, toward home, toward the smell of pie cooling on the windowsill, toward a version of yourself that never questioned anything.

Then the phone rings.

You freeze. You know who it is before you even pick it up. Kyle.

Kyle, your brother’s best friend. Kyle, the one with that lazy grin and the rough hands of someone who actually feels things. He started tutoring you in math last semester, and it was innocent at first—jokes about your accent, teasing you about always bringing baked goods to study sessions. Then one night, the air changed. His voice softened. His fingers brushed yours over a notebook, and suddenly, you weren’t laughing anymore.

You still remember the way he kissed you—hesitant at first, like a secret trying to escape. The sound of rain against the window. His hand beneath your shirt, the warmth of it making your whole body forget how to breathe. You’d pulled away, terrified—not of him, but of yourself. Of how much you wanted something you weren’t supposed to.

The phone keeps ringing.

You finally lift the receiver to your ear. “Hello?”

“You answered,” Kyle says, his voice low, uncertain. “I… I’m sorry about the other night. I know it was fast, but I thought you wanted it too.”

Your pulse quickens.

“I like you,” he says. “I really do. And if you feel the same way… come to the parking lot at ten. I have something for you.”

You can’t find your voice before the dorm door swings open.

“Yo, sis! I brought pizza!” Ethan’s voice fills the room, easy and bright, completely unaware of the panic that flashes across your face.

You hang up fast, pretending it was a wrong number. The smell of melted cheese and cardboard fills the room as he kicks the door shut behind him.

“What, no hug for your favorite roommate?” he teases, grinning.

“You’re sweaty,” you reply, smiling just enough to keep him from asking questions.

“Exactly. It’s part of the charm,” he says, tossing the pizza on the desk. He starts talking about practice, his teammates, something about the Vietnam protests outside campus earlier—but you barely hear him.