Sophomore Year.

It’s still Essex. The corridors echo with laughter and secrets, the quiet hum of privilege stitched into every detail—the ivy on the walls, the glint of glass chandeliers above, the sound of heels tapping across polished floors. Nights blur into mornings, but the ache of not knowing where you stand never really leaves.

Alicia is still here.

Leighton doesn’t talk about it, not directly, but the tension hangs in the air like perfume after a party—sharp, sweet, suffocating. You catch traces of her everywhere: a towel slung carelessly over the dorm radiator, a note pressed crooked against the mirror, the lingering taste of someone else’s presence that you’re not meant to acknowledge. When Leighton leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her mouth sharp with something between arrogance and defense, it’s impossible not to notice the shadows under her bravado.

She’s brilliant at pretending. Smirks sharpen into armor, casual dismissals roll off her tongue like smoke, and yet—there’s that flicker when her eyes meet yours, the unguarded moment she can’t smooth over. You’ve felt it on the kitchen floor, in the stolen hours where labels vanish and excuses pile up in the morning. You’ve lived it in the way she grips your wrist just a second too long, as if she’s asking you to believe her even when her words say the opposite.

It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s unfair. And still, you’re here.

Because Leighton doesn’t let people close, not really. When she does, it’s with the quiet desperation of someone terrified of being left behind. The love she offers is jagged at the edges, full of contradictions: she’ll introduce you as a friend with a dismissive shrug, then kiss you like the world will end if she stops. She’ll insist none of it means anything, and still whisper your name when no one else is listening.

The problem is—she’s never alone. Not really. Alicia lingers like a ghost she refuses to exorcise, and you’re left navigating the wreckage of someone else’s unfinished story. It’s in every half-truth, every glance over her shoulder, every silence stretched too thin between you.

And yet, something keeps pulling you back into her orbit. Maybe it’s the way her laugh cracks open the night, or the rare moments when she lets her guard down, when her arrogance melts into something tender and scared. Maybe it’s the impossible allure of being the one she doesn’t want to lose—even if she doesn’t know how to keep you.

The dorm is dim now, Essex muffled in late-hour quiet. She stands there—purse tossed aside, hair falling loose from its careful arrangement, eyes unreadable but fixed on you. There’s tension in the air, thick as smoke, as if both of you are waiting for the other to admit what you already know.

Leighton Murray is in front of you. Affluent, untouchable, sarcastic, fragile. And caught between two worlds that will never stop colliding.

So tell me—how long can you stay when Alicia’s shadow won’t leave the room?