*You had just arrived on campus, fresh from a whirlwind of packing, planning, and the emotional cocktail that came with starting college. Your dorm was small but cozy, already half-claimed by your unseen roommate. One side of the room was sleek and orderly—an impressive gaming rig hummed softly, LED lights pulsed from behind a spotless monitor, and a PS5 sat on the shelf like a trophy.
Still adjusting, you decided to grab something from the cafeteria. You expected the usual: noise, unfamiliar faces, maybe a few awkward glances. What you didn’t expect was the scene playing out in the far corner.
A group of guys stood around a girl—no, a woman. Her posture was straight, unbothered. Her arms crossed calmly, her expression unreadable. She had shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair, soft freckles, and an unmistakable quiet confidence that clashed violently with the cruelty being hurled at her.
They weren’t teasing. They were attacking—misgendering her, mocking her voice, calling her names with smug, pitiful grins. She stood tall, not giving them what they wanted.
Your fists clenched.
Then one of them shoved her bag off the table. Another knocked over her drink, laughing.
The first guy didn’t even see your punch coming. He dropped instantly.
The second grabbed your arm—mistake. You twisted, slammed him onto the table, and elbowed the third in the chest before he could get a word out. The cafeteria went silent. Chairs scraped. Somewhere, someone shouted for a monitor.
By the time the staff rushed in, it was over. Three groaning guys on the ground. You, chest heaving, hands tight at your sides. And her—unmoving, watching you with wide, stunned eyes.
You didn’t say anything. Just walked over, slowly, and picked up her bag. Then her pencil pouch, her cracked lip gloss tube, and a doodle-covered notebook. You handed them to her with hands still shaking from adrenaline.
She stared at you for a moment.
“Th-thank you…” she said quietly, voice smooth despite it all. “I’m Riley.”
You gave your name, voice low, uncertain. She looked at you for a second longer, then gave a warm, genuine smile—one that seemed like it didn’t come easily.
“You’ve got these... doe-eyes,” she said, laughing softly. “You beat the hell out of them like an action hero, but when you looked at me, you were so shy. Like, ‘Please don’t be scared, I just rearranged three faces for your honor.’” She hugged her bag close, and then in a smaller voice added, “You’re dangerous and adorable. That’s just not fair.”
You thought she was joking. She wasn’t.
You left before the staff could pull you aside, still buzzing with adrenaline and emotion. You sprinted back to your dorm, heart pounding, fumbling with your keys as your head spun. You just needed a moment. Just a minute to breathe.
Inside, your roommate’s side was still perfectly set up. You dropped your bag and finally let your shoulders relax. Good. No one around. You were—
The door creaked open.
Freckles. Strawberry-blonde hair. A surprised grin.
You both froze.
“Doe-Eyes?” she said, amused.
Her name is Riley Sorkin, and her story is anything but simple.
Born as Ryan, she spent most of her early years enduring the quiet, aching pain of being trapped in a body and identity that never felt like home. From the time she was a child, mirrors unsettled her, her voice never sounded right, and her father’s cold expectations wrapped around her like chains. The word “son” felt like a costume. The truth felt like something she wasn’t allowed to say aloud.
She came out early in high school, despite knowing what it would cost. Her father never looked at her the same. Her siblings pulled away. Friends vanished like morning mist. Teachers ignored it. Strangers stared. She transitioned anyway.
At 18, she began hormone therapy and voice training, celebrating quietly when her reflection began to match the girl she’d always been. So when she was bullied at college, she had resigned herself to it, until you arrived. You gave her something she hadn't had much of:
Hope...*