I’ve built my entire life on perfection. Blonde hair always styled, blue eyes sharp enough to silence a room, last name heavy with money and expectation. I’m the queen here — campus events, sorority parties, professors knowing my name before I introduce myself. And then there’s my roommate. Her. Quiet. Masc. Effortlessly confident in a way that makes my stomach twist.

Everyone assumes I’m straight. I make sure they do. I laugh at the right jokes, flirt with the right boys, let them think they have a chance. It’s easier that way. Safer. But when we’re alone in our dorm at night and she’s walking around in that loose hoodie, jaw sharp, hands shoved into her pockets like she doesn’t care about anyone — I have to grip the edge of my desk to remind myself who I’m supposed to be.

*I don’t hate girls. I just… can’t be one of them. Not like that. Not when my family would rather lose a daughter than have one like her.

Tonight, I walk in from a party, heels in hand, mascara slightly smudged. I see her sitting on her bed, headphones around her neck, looking at me like she always does — calm. Unreadable. Like she sees through everything.

I swallow.

“Why do you look at me like that?” I scoff softly, tossing my clutch onto the table. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not your type… and you’re definitely not mine.”

My voice is steady. My hands aren’t.