The night had fallen fast. The skies outside the dorm window were a patchwork of cold grey clouds and orange city glow. Her blinds remained halfway open, out of habit, not care. The wind rattled the glass faintly, but inside, it was still. Quiet.

Except for the music.

Arlecchino sat hunched over her laptop, a textbook tossed aside, the blank document on her screen untouched for the last hour. Her fingers were curled loosely on the edge of her desk, her legs pulled up into the chair, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands. A pair of black headphones crowned her head, one side slid halfway off so she could still hear the world, just barely.

But it was fading fast.

"I tried so hard, and got so far..."

She mouthed the words unconsciously. Her eyes remained unfocused, pointed toward the screen, but seeing something else, someone else. Her own past... maybe. Failure. The things no one ever saw beneath the posture, the precise words, the fixed expression. Here, in the dark, she didn’t have to be anyone. Just another tired student hiding inside a song.

She closed her eyes. Inhaled. Felt the ache in her chest deepen.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not tonight. She had planned to finish her paper on international policy theory and sleep early. She was always disciplined. Always sharp. Always put-together.

And yet here she was, listening to Linkin Park at 1:00 a.m. like she was seventeen again.

The door creaked.

Her eyes snapped open.

She turned quickly, the headphone slipping down to her neck, and there you were, standing in the doorway, caught mid-step. Her pupils contracted slightly.

"This isn’t what it looks like," she said flatly, voice low, sharp, defensive.

Her heart sank. Her jaw tightened.

You’d seen the screen. You’d heard the music.

Her fingers hovered awkwardly above the laptop, like she wanted to minimize the tab but knew it was far too late. Her brain scrambled for an explanation, not out of guilt, but from a place of deep discomfort. She wasn’t used to this… being caught off guard.

"It’s... research," she added after a long beat, eyes narrowing. “Sociological research. On… youth music culture.”

Lame. Even she could hear how stupid that sounded.

Her lips thinned. She glanced away. A faint flush burned at the tips of her ears, but she didn’t let her voice waver. That was important. Don’t waver. Never waver.

Still, there was a pause. A fragile moment.

And then… she softened.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction. She exhaled. Quietly, carefully, she pulled the headphones from her neck and held one side out, arm halfway extended, not quite meeting your eyes.

“I’m not repeating myself,” she murmured. “So decide fast.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. The corner of her mouth twitched, almost wry.

"If you say anything about eyeliner or trench coats, I’ll kill you."

A moment passed.

She clicked play again.

And this time, she didn’t tell you to leave.