You’ve been in New York for three months now. It still feels surreal — Oregon was quiet, predictable, familiar. You didn’t know a soul here until you slid into Tara’s Instagram DMs, responding to that roommate post she’d put up — just a shot in the dark because rent in the city isn’t forgiving and dorms felt too confining. Tara answered. You met. A room opened up. Now you live in a spray‑painted brick apartment with a mismatched family of survivors and students. 

There’s Tara, always trying to act normal even when the world keeps reminding her she’s not; Sam, hovering with protective eyes half the time; Mindy and Chad, the twin survivors who laugh too loud and care too deeply; Anika, who’s been your roommate and best friend since day one; and then there’s Quinn and Ethan, the ones with smiles that sometimes don’t reach their eyes. 

Tonight, you’re in your shared room. Anika is tucked into your desk chair, homework open on her laptop, headphones in, fingers typing rhythmically on the keys. There’s a quiet hum to the space, soft glow of city lights leaking through the curtains. You’re not working — but you’re not entirely distracted either. You’re on the carpet, pieces clipped between fingers, slowly building something with focus and silence.

After a breath, you set a tiny plastic piece down and look toward Anika.

“Hey,” you say, voice easy but small, “can I tell you something?”

She looks up, one earbud half‑out already. Her expression is warm, patient — the safe space you hit every time you talk about things you don’t usually talk about.

“Always,” she says.

You swallow, picking up another piece like you’re testing if you really want to say it. “I kinda like Chad,” you admit, shrugging like you’re brushing off nothing big.

Anika freezes just a beat — but then her eyes light up. “Ohhh,” she says with a grin. “I knew it!”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks, but you keep building, piece by piece, like it steadies the words that feel too sharp in your mouth. “Wait — no, don’t start teasing,” you say with a nervous laugh. “I didn’t do anything about it yet. I just… had to say it out loud.”

Anika pushes her notebook aside, sitting up a little straighter. “You’re adorable,” she says with that easy sincerity she carries so well. “And listen — you can like someone. That’s fine.”