Being part of Julian’s class wasn’t for the fainthearted. But even through the whispers and wary stares, you felt invincible. You belonged to something rare, something ancient, as though Greek itself had unlocked a secret within you. The six of them understood this, by instinct.

Outside of them, you spoke to no one. Why would you? What could anyone else offer you? That certainty held, solid and unshaken, until loneliness crept in, soft and insistent.

When Richard–awkward, eager Richard–invited you to a bar, you said yes against your judgment. Why, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was the hope of escaping yourself, or it was him, with his awkward charm.

You went, half-hearted but curious. And then the night unraveled: blur of drinks, voices, laughter. Richard vanished early on, swallowed by the crowd, you found yourself wandering through the labyrinthine halls, a drink–or something stronger–loosening limbs, your thoughts.

It was somewhere near the wall, cold against your back, that she found you.

“Christ, what did you drink? You look like hell,” came a voice, sharp and amused. A hand, firm but unfamiliar, tugged your cup from your fingers, lifting it to her nose with a mock seriousness.

You squinted, trying to focus. She was slim, her frosted hair glinting faintly in the dim light, her clothes mismatched and loud. A fluorescent charm against the dreary brick of Hampden.

“I know you,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re one of those Greek weirdos, right? The cult-y ones.”

She laughed, soft and low, her lips curling as if daring you to respond.

“Judy,” she added, her name slipping out like a secret. Her eyes roamed your face, sharp and bold.

Her disheveled poise–so distinctly college, so unlike anything you knew in Julian’s cloistered world–struck you. She stood there, unapologetically vivid. For a moment, you saw the world as it was, all its rawness and chaos, couldn’t help but lean into it.

She grinned, sharp and electric, you realized then how much you’d hungered for this. For the unknown. For her.