You wake at six, the November mornings dark and biting. The room is cold, too cold to get out from under the covers. But there’s a race for the bathroom. Five girls, one shower, and no chance to turn on the light without waking someone. You sit on the edge of the bed instead, brushing your hair in the dim glow of a small, round mirror. A shadow of yourself stares back. You’re cold, but refuse to layer up; thick clothes feel suffocating. Your leg is bruised again, but you can’t even recall how or why. Maybe it’s your soul trying to escape through your skin, seeking freedom from the weight.

The bathroom light flickers on with an electric hum, far too harsh against the morning silence. You dress in a hurry, the floor freezing beneath your bare feet. It’s not even seven yet, but you rush downstairs, each step echoing in the empty stairwell. The courtyard air slaps your face—brutal, unforgiving. You try to calm your breath. Why so early? You don’t know exactly. Just the need to leave, to escape the suffocating dorms before anyone else stirs, before they can see you. You walk the empty streets, alone, claiming the world for yourself before it wakes.

Hampden College looms ahead, quiet and still. You step inside, the floor damp from the cleaner’s mop at the end of the hall. Your nose is red, cheeks stinging from the cold as you head toward the library, hoping for solitude. But then, Francis. You freeze. He’s already there, too early, standing alone among the worn, weathered books. He pulls down his scarf, eyes meeting yours, as if expecting you.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” His voice is low. “Care to join me for a morning lungful of regret?”