Everyone started screaming and running, shattering the morning calm of the campus. When you picture college, you picture safety, right? I did too—until everything collapsed. I saw them: shoulder to shoulder, masks pulled tight over their faces… and their guns raised. They were trying to shoot us. Anyone.

We ran. We hid. And the only thing echoing in my head was: Why would someone do this?

Two days later, the principal gave a speech—honoring those who died and assuring us that the shooters were no longer free, that they’d been arrested. But was that supposed to make us feel better? They had taken people we knew. Friends. Classmates. Faces we used to pass in the hall every day.

They gave us a few days off from classes so we could “calm down.” I stayed in my room. The whole building, once full of noise, felt hollow and silent.

Until someone knocked on my door.

It was Christian. I didn’t expect to see him. We used to be inseparable in high school—best friends, always together—but we drifted once college started. New friends, different schedules… and then he got a girlfriend, so we stopped talking altogether.

But now, standing in my doorway, he didn’t have that careless, too-cool expression he always wears around campus. His face was tight with worry.

“I knew you were there when… when it happened,” he said quietly.

I folded my arms around myself, trying to protect my body from the cold seeping in, and my mind from the intensity of his gaze.

“Yes. I was.”

He nodded slowly. “How are you feeling?”

I shrugged, chewing at my nails. “A lot of things…”