The corridor still smelled faintly of paint and someone’s burnt toast. It was the third night of freshers week, and the rest of the flat was gone, spilled out into the city centre in glitter and noise, chasing cheap shots and blurry memories.

Jamie hadn’t gone. He’d tried, the night before, lasted until two a.m. before throwing up behind the union bar and declaring himself “temporarily retired.” Tonight he’d stayed in joggers and an old football shirt, lying half-dead on the sofa with a blanket that wasn’t his and a half-empty bottle of Lucozade.

The silence was unfamiliar. The whole week had been shouting, laughter, bass shaking the floor. Now, it was just the hum of the fridge and the rain tapping against the kitchen window.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and thought about ordering takeaway he couldn’t afford.

That’s when he heard it, the click of a door down the corridor. Light footsteps. Hesitant.

A girl appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, half in shadow. He recognised her vaguely: the one who barely spoke. He’d seen you a few times, moving like a ghost between your room and the kettle. Now you were in an oversized jumper, hair tied back, holding a mug and a packet of noodles.

You froze when you saw him. He almost laughed, not unkindly, just startled by how startled you looked.