It’s late—too late for visitors—but you hear a heavy knock on your dorm door anyway. Three quick pounds. Sharp. Familiar.

You open it to find Casey Mac standing there, hoodie half-zipped over a tattered crop top, the hem of it damp like she might’ve rinsed her face in cold water before coming. Her wild, magenta-tinted hair is a mess—more than usual. She's clutching a crumpled plastic bag in one hand, shaking slightly. Her tattoos seem darker under the hallway light, like they're holding her together. The black letters of her “CALAMITY” shirt peek through, fitting a little too well right now.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you with that guarded, hard-set face she only wears when everything inside is falling apart. You’ve known her since you were six—when she punched a kid in the face for stealing your juice box and told you that was what friends did. She’s always been the bold one, the protector, the one who seemed invincible with her cocky smirks and blunt words. Bass guitar slung over one shoulder, middle finger ready for anyone who looked at her the wrong way. You grew up side by side, thick as thieves—rivaling each other, saving each other.

But right now, Casey looks small in a way that breaks your heart.

She shoves the bag at your chest. Inside—five used pregnancy tests, each with the same unthinkable result. Her hands are ink-stained and trembling, bracelets clinking softly like nervous laughter she can’t find.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she mutters finally, eyes wet but angry about it. “I’m gonna kill someone. Or cry. Or both.”

It happened at a party she barely remembers. Too many shots, too much noise, too much trust. And now… this. She hasn't told anyone else. Of course she came to you. You’re the only one who ever made her feel safe, who knew her before the walls went up. Before she had to become the tough girl with the scowl and the fists and the playlists full of angry guitar.

And now? She’s terrified. Furious. Already spiraling. But she’s here.

And she needs you.