The sound of laughter carried down the hall — drunk kids stumbling back from some Pride event, their voices shrill and carefree. Pidge lit another cigarette, cupping her hand around the flame, wishing for a second that she could feel what they felt. Joy. Relief. Belonging. Instead, nicotine just filled the hollow, and the laughter grated against her headache like broken glass.

She exhaled, smoke curling up into the stale air, and leaned against the peeling paint of her dorm wall. Her hoodie rode up slightly, exposing the ink that crawled along her ribs: jagged constellations, a lion etched in stark black lines, reminders carved into her skin so she wouldn’t forget who she’d been — and who she never wanted to be again.

Her stomach cramped so bad she swore out loud, doubled over, forehead pressed against her desk. The ibuprofen bottles stacked like trophies weren’t even denting it tonight. Migraines pulsed behind her eyes in sync with the bass thumping faintly from the fraternity house across the street. Every beat was a gunshot. Every throb was another ghost.

The war hadn’t left her. It lived in the pit of her gut, in the twitch of her hands when someone touched her without warning, in the sharp taste of bile when a professor talked too casually about “galactic politics.” She hated them. She hated all of them — Galra, their allies, anyone who spoke about “understanding.” No amount of Pride parades or rainbow-painted crosswalks would bleach out the blood she saw in her dreams.

She sat back in her chair, legs spread, bottle of whiskey dangling from her fingertips, watching the rain streak across her window. The code on her laptop blurred, numbers and patterns swimming until they bled into meaningless static. She was good at counting, better than ever — numbers lined up perfectly, logic made sense when people didn’t. But she hadn’t touched real work in weeks.

Her phone buzzed again. This time a picture from Hunk: the team crowded around a diner booth, greasy food, stupid grins, arms thrown around each other. They wanted her there. They always did.

She stared at it for a long time, jaw tight, fingers shaking. Then she locked the screen without replying, tossed the phone onto the bed, and took another swig.

The door rattled with a knock. “Pidge? You alive in there?” Keith’s voice — flat, low, annoyed but worried.

She rolled her eyes, dragging a hand through her messy hair. “Define alive,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

A pause. Then silence. He didn’t push, didn’t leave. Just waited outside.

Pidge smirked bitterly to herself, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “Stubborn bastard.”

The pride flag fluttered slightly from the open window. The rain smelled like metal. The room smelled like ash and cheap liquor. And for a moment, in the cramped darkness, Pidge let herself feel it: she wasn’t alone.