Zoe transformed their dorm room in, like, record time—fifteen minutes flat and suddenly Sephora exploded everywhere. Her side of the desk looked like a magpie's hoard: lip gloss tubes rolling into eyeshadow palettes, rogue glitter in every crevice, and that faint chemical haze of "maybe I should've opened a window." The mirror? Total chaos. Zoe didn't care.
"Hold still, damn it."
Xenia tried, but her left eye twitched as Zoe swiped on eyeliner like a surgeon with a Red Bull problem. "Is this really necessary? I'm not exactly... whatever the opposite of 'nightclub material' is."
Zoe snorted, not even pausing. "Girl, you're intimidating-hot and wicked smart. That's, like, prime club content. Once you stop walking like you're about to defend your thesis, you'll fit right in."
Xenia squinted at her own reflection, which was some mix of 'tired grad student' and 'knife-wielding Disney villain.' Cheekbones sharp enough to shank someone. Eyes that looked like they'd seen some stuff. Mouth? Basically a sarcasm dispenser.
"I mean… I look like I might survive the night," she said, all slow and uncertain.
---
Nova Pulse looked like someone had taken a glowstick, cracked it open, and poured it all over the walls. The club pulsed with LED lights and bass-heavy music that made Xenia feel like her ribs were vibrating.
Zoe dragged her through the crowd with the enthusiasm of someone who lived for chaos.
The dance floor was a blur of sweaty joy and cheap cologne. Bodies pressed together, jumping to the rhythm of some remixed early-2000s hit. Xenia followed Zoe to the bar and was immediately handed something pink with a slice of lime.
"Drink it. Don't question it."
She took a sip. It tasted like a fruit roll-up had a baby with regret.
They danced. Or rather, Zoe danced and Xenia kind of shuffled in place, arms up just enough to not be suspicious. But as the music wrapped around her and the lights blurred the world into abstract color, something loosened in her chest.
For the first time in weeks, Xenia stopped thinking.
---
That peace shattered when her phone buzzed.
STEVE: Can we talk?
Her chest tightened. She stepped away from the crowd and ducked into a quieter hallway near the restrooms. The phone glowed in her hand.
She answered.
"Hey," she said, suddenly cold despite the heat around her.
Steven's voice was low. Awkward. "Xen. Look… we need to break up."
She blinked.
No hi. No how are you. Just straight to it.
"Okay," she said too fast. Her brain was still catching up.
"I just… don't think we're on the same page. You're so… intense. Focused. I don't even think you noticed when I skipped your birthday."
Xenia swallowed. She had noticed. But she'd been writing a paper that night on inclusive education strategies. She told herself it was fine.
"You should know," she said, voice tight, "I made Valedictorian."
Silence. Then a long sigh. "Of course you did."
He hung up.
And just like that, her chest cracked.
She stared at the screen until it dimmed, then locked. Her reflection stared back at her—perfect eyeliner, perfect grades, perfect heartbreak.
Outside, the club roared. But in this hallway, it was just her.
°°°°°°°°°°°
She left without telling Zoe.
The streets of Argenta were still buzzing—neon signs blinking like tired eyelids, light rail humming in the distance, people laughing too loud just to prove they could. The city always felt like it was on the edge of something. Some nights it danced. Some nights it cracked.
Tonight, Xenia wasn't sure which it was.
Her phone buzzed again. She didn't look. Probably Zoe texting "where tf u go" in all caps. Or Steven. Or no one.
She turned into a side alley she'd walked a hundred times before—tucked behind the club, cutting through the dorm strip, past the old campus recycling center and the wall with all the painted names of seniors who used to rule the school. Some had little hearts drawn around them. Some were scratched out.
The alley stank of warm trash, fryer oil, and streetlight static. A puddle glittered from last night's rain, rippling under the flicker of an old sodium bulb. She stepped over it carefully, clutching her purse like a shield.
A rustle ahead.
She glanced up.
Two figures near the dumpster.
A girl, slouched against the brick wall. Long hair. Pale heels tilted sideways. A guy was with her—close. Arms on either side of her shoulders. Leaning in like he was whispering something funny in her ear.
Xenia blinked, startled.
Okay. Trashcan makeout sessions. Still a thing, apparently.
She looked away immediately, cheeks heating, and picked up her pace. Her footsteps echoed sharper than she meant. Too loud. Too alone.
But curiosity itched.
She risked a glance back.
Still there.
But… unmoving.
The girl's chin was tilted high, neck exposed. The guy's head was still pressed to it. No kisses. No murmuring. No shifting weight. No giggles or complaints. Just... stillness.
Weird.
She almost said something. Almost asked, "You okay?" like a normal human. But the words caught in her throat. Who was she to interrupt? Maybe they were drunk. Or passed out. Or doing something definitely not her business.
The overhead light buzzed louder. Then popped. Darkness swallowed the middle of the alley for a second before the backup bulb kicked in, yellow and jittery.
She kept walking.
And that should've been it.
But her eyes darted back once more.
The girl's hand twitched.
Not in a cute, drunk-flirty way.
In a… delayed-spasm kind of way.
Xenia's pulse tripped over itself. Her fingers tightened around her phone.
She walked faster now—not running, not panicking—just that casual, not-at-all-suspicious speed people use when pretending they're definitely not scared of something behind them.
The beat of the club was muffled now, like it had sunk beneath the city.
Another drip. Water, maybe. Or something else.
She made it to the edge of the alley.
The street beyond was noisy, lit up with food stalls and small packs of college kids in glittery jackets and glow-stick bracelets. A guy pushed a cart of skewered isaw and quail eggs, smoke trailing behind like a cape.
Xenia slowed.
She didn't check behind her again.
Instead, she stopped under the blinking light of a pharmacy sign and stared blankly into the window where shampoo bottles were lined up like trophies.
The air suddenly felt heavy in her lungs. Her heels hurt. Her head pounded with leftover music, leftover memories, leftover everything.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass for a second. Just one second.
Then she kept walking.
No alarms. No sirens. No final destination music playing in her head.
Just the city.
Just another night.
Just one more scene she didn't realize she should've paid attention to.
°°°°°°°°°°
Xenia's dorm room smelled like setting spray and self-loathing.
The glitter on her cheekbones was already melting into regret, and her heels had started a war with her ankles she couldn't win. She sat at her desk, still in her club clothes—black halter top, tight jeans, hair frizzed from sweat and neon humidity. The makeup Zoe had artfully applied had begun its slow transformation into raccoon battle armor. She hadn't even taken off her earrings.
Her laptop was open. A tab still blinked with the subject line: "CONGRATULATIONS, VALEDICTORIAN - Draft Speech Reminder."
She squinted at the words she'd written, which were supposed to be inspiring. Or at least coherent.
"I stand here not just for myself, but for every sleepless—"
She stopped. Crossed it out. Typed:
"I stand here not just for myself, but for every sleepless night, every part-time job, every—"
"Steven, stop distracting me," she muttered.
She hadn't even written his name.
"Fuck no. Steven, stop distracting me, I hate you!"
Her voice cracked halfway through, and the tears finally came like a broken faucet. Her mascara, loyal till now, betrayed her. She threw her pen across the room. It bounced off the closet door with a soft thud.
Her phone buzzed. Zoe.
"Xenia! Where the hell are you?!"