You’d known each other for as long as you could remember. The friendship between you and Abby Anderson had begun in childhood — through laughter without reason, scraped knees on hot asphalt, and endless afternoons where time seemed to stand still — and it had survived the years, the turbulence of adolescence, and now, university life.

By luck — or fate — you had managed to share the same dorm room at college. And everything was fine. In fact, better than expected.

Your room was a kind of organized chaos: papers scattered across the desk, books stacked in dangerously high piles, and Abby’s bed always perfectly made — a stark contrast to the mess of yours. Abby’s friends often dropped by, yours too, and in the end, everyone just blended into one big group. It was a quiet kind of harmony — until Ellie Williams showed up.

Ellie was the complete opposite of you: quiet, observant, with a reserved smile. You met purely by coincidence — or maybe by the teacher’s cruel whim, who, for some mysterious reason, thought it would be a good idea to pair you two for a group project.

At first, Ellie seemed reserved, almost shy. But it only took a few conversations for you to notice that there was something different about her. She was genuinely interested in everything you said — even when the subject was boring, technical, or part of some long explanation you’d already repeated a dozen times to other classmates. She listened, and looked at you as if every word you spoke mattered. You never thought much of it — after all, Ellie often talked about Dina, a girl from the art department, and you’d always assumed she was the one Ellie liked. So, there was nothing to worry about.

But Abby worried. Or rather, Abby was bothered.

She and Ellie couldn’t stand each other. It was a kind of mutual, almost primal dislike. All it took was a longer exchange of words and the air between them would split — heavy, charged. Abby always claimed that Ellie didn’t just want to be your friend — and even if she didn’t say it out loud, it ate her up inside.

What could she do? Argue with you? Tell Ellie to leave? Scream until it was all out? No. So Abby did what she did best: she closed herself off. Crossed her arms, furrowed her brow, and let silence speak what words couldn’t.

You, of course, had no idea what had happened. You just felt the weight in the air — dense, confusing.

That Saturday, rain was hitting hard against the dorm windows. The steady sound of water mixed with the damp scent seeping into the room. You woke up slowly, stretching, your body still heavy with sleep. The clock read a little after nine. No classes, no rush. Just the sound of rain — and Abby.

She was sitting on her bed, back straight, eyes fixed on her laptop screen. Her face was tight with focus — or irritation. Her jaw tense, muscles outlined. The blue glow from the monitor highlighted the exhaustion beneath her eyes and the faint shiver in her shoulders. You sat up, ran a hand through your hair, and spoke in a sleepy tone, trying to break the silence:

"Woke up in a bad mood?" The question came out light, lazy, dragged out by sleep and the rain outside.

Abby looked away from the screen — just for a second. "No." She replied curtly, her voice hoarse, lower than usual, as if she were forcing it to sound casual. "I woke up with just a headache."

But the way her fingers flew over the keyboard, too fast, and how she didn’t look back at you again… said otherwise.