The whole campus expected me to fall apart the day Andrew Zelinski confessed to the pretty transfer girl.

They pictured me sprinting across the quad in tears, begging him not to do it.

They lined up outside the lecture hall just to watch me break.

I never showed.

While Andrew was busy pouring his heart out to Coraline, I was three floors up in his own dorm.

I was wearing his roommate's gray hoodie, sitting cross-legged on his roommate's bed, swinging my wet hair.

Spencer Lithgow looked at me, then looked very hard at the wall.

His throat moved when he swallowed.

"I got your sheets wet," I said, sweet as anything, "so where am I supposed to sleep tonight?"

He threw a towel at my face without a word.

"Dry your hair," he said, "and stop sitting on my bed like that."

What none of them knew was that I'd already let Andrew go months ago, on his birthday, when I found the messages.

What Spencer didn't know was that I'd kept his hoodie on purpose.

And the transfer application I filed last week was about to change which dorm I'd be walking past every morning.

***

The roar from the courtyard below rattled the windowpanes.

A collective shriek echoed through the damp night air, followed by a rhythmic chanting of names. Down there, Andrew was standing in the center of a heart made of cheap electric candles, handing a microphone to Coraline, the new transfer student. The whole campus had rushed to the quad, fully expecting me to burst through the crowd, crying, begging him to stop.

I dragged my wet hair back from my forehead and didn't move an inch.

Instead of making a fool of myself in the mud, I sat cross-legged on the fourth floor of Andrew's own dorm building. Specifically, in his roommate's bed.

The oversized gray hoodie swallowed me whole. Spencer had shoved it at me during a storm three months ago. I never gave it back.

Spencer leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes flicked from the window to me.

"They're getting loud," he noted, his voice flat.

"Let them." I shifted my weight, pressing a damp spot into his mattress. "I got your bed wet."

He stared at the growing dark patch on his sheets. His jaw tightened.

"Where do I sleep tonight?" I asked, tilting my head, letting my voice go soft and innocent.

Spencer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He jerked his gaze away, fixing it on the blank wall to his left. He snatched a towel off the desk chair and chucked it straight at my face.

"Dry your hair," he ordered, his tone rough. "And stop sitting on my bed like that."

I caught the towel before it hit my nose. Pulling the fabric over my head, I rubbed the moisture from my scalp. Under the terrycloth, I smiled. I tugged the cuffs of his sweater over my knuckles.

Half a year ago, I had sent Andrew one hundred and forty-two messages in a single night. He ignored every single one. That was the exact moment he evaporated from my chest. There was nothing left for him there.

"You're ruining my mattress," Spencer said, stepping further into the room. He didn't look at me. He busied himself with a stack of textbooks on his desk.

"It's just water."

"It's my bed."

"You can share."

He stopped shuffling the books. His knuckles went white against the spine of a heavy hardcover. "Don't push it, Juniper."

"I'm just asking a logical question. My dorm is locked, my roommate is downstairs cheering for my supposed boyfriend, and I'm stranded."

"He's not your boyfriend anymore. Clearly."

"Are you defending him?" I asked, dropping the towel to my lap.

Spencer spun around. "Do I look like I'm defending him?"

"You're his roommate."

"Unfortunately."

"And you're hiding his crazy ex-girlfriend in your room while he declares his undying love to a girl he met Tuesday."

"You're not crazy."

"Everyone downstairs thinks I am."

"Everyone downstairs is an idiot."

I laughed. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. Outside, the microphone crackled. Andrew's voice echoed up the brick walls, declaring something about destiny and fate.

Spencer walked over to the window and slammed it shut. The noise muffled instantly.

"You didn't have to do that," I said.

"I hate his voice."

"Me too."

He leaned against the sill, studying me. The harsh overhead light caught the sharp angles of his face. "Why are you up here, Juniper?"

"I told you. I was caught in the rain."

"You could have gone to the library. The student center. Literally anywhere else."

"I wanted to be here."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "In my hoodie."

"It's comfortable."

"It's mine."

"Not anymore." I pulled the hood up over my damp hair, letting the strings dangle. "Finders keepers."

Spencer uncrossed his arms and took a step toward the bed. "You realize everyone out there is waiting for the grand finale. They want the betrayed girlfriend scene."

"They can wait."

"Andrew even bought a new microphone for this."

"Did he? How romantic. I hope he kept the receipt."

"He didn't. He told me it was a symbol of his permanent devotion."

I snorted. "Permanent devotion. That's rich coming from a guy who changes his major every semester."

Spencer didn't laugh. He just watched me. His gaze felt heavy, pinning me to the mattress.

"You're dripping on the floor now," he pointed out.

"Gravity is working against me."

"Get up, Juniper."

"I'm tired."

"You're stubborn."

"That too."

He walked closer. The room was small, so it only took three strides to reach me. He stopped right at the edge of the mattress. Close enough that I could smell the clean soap on his skin, cutting through the damp chill of the rain.

"Why my bed?" he asked. "His is right there." He pointed across the room to the neatly made bed on the opposite wall. Andrew's bed.

"His pillows smell like cheap cologne," I said.

"And mine?"

"Soap. And laundry detergent. It's tolerable."

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck. "You're infuriating."

"You're too tense. You need to relax, roommate of my ex."

"He's not your ex yet. He hasn't officially broken up with you."

"He's confessing his love to a girl named Coraline in front of three hundred people. I consider that a fairly solid breakup text."

"You still have that," Spencer said, changing the subject, nodding at the gray fabric I was wearing.

"Have what?"

"My hoodie."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I bought this at the campus store."

"It has a bleach stain on the left sleeve."

I lifted my left arm. A faded white spot sat right near the elbow. "A design choice. Very avant-garde."

"I gave that to you three months ago. During the campus blackout."

"You threw it at my head."

"You were shivering."

"I was fine."

"Your teeth were chattering so loud I couldn't hear the thunder."

"Exaggeration."

"You owe me a hoodie."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"I want that one."

"Too bad. It's mine now."

He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder. For a second, I thought he was going to physically pull me up. Instead, he grabbed the edge of the blanket I was sitting on and gave it a sharp tug.

I tumbled backward, landing flat on my back against his pillows.

"Hey!" I shouted, staring up at the ceiling.

"I told you to get up."

"You pulled the rug out from under me. Literally."

"It's a blanket."

I stayed lying down, spreading my arms out wide. "Fine. Now I'm taking up even more space. Happy?"

He glared down at me. "You are a menace."

"Andrew is going to come back up here eventually," I said, ignoring his insult.

"Doubt it. He has a new girlfriend to entertain. They'll probably go to that diner on 4th Street. He loves taking girls there to look at the jukebox he never plays."

"You know his routine."

"I know his script. He's predictable."

"And you?"

"I am trying to study."

"You haven't opened a single book since I got here."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then snapped back up to my eyes. "You talk too much."

"And you complain too much."

Another roar erupted from outside, loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards. Someone set off a firework. A crackle of red light flashed against the glass. The crowd went absolutely wild.

Spencer turned his head toward the window, then looked back at me. The tension in his shoulders coiled tighter.

"You're not going down to watch?" he asked, his voice low. "He's confessing to someone else."

I let the oversized sleeves swallow my hands, tilted my chin up, and smiled without answering.

"You're not going down to watch?" Spencer asked again, his voice low.

I scrubbed the rough cotton over my scalp, pressing the fabric into my wet hair. "No."

"He's making a spectacle."

"He always does." I pulled the towel away from my face. The hem caught the harsh overhead light, revealing three faded numbers—407—embroidered in navy thread. Spencer's student ID suffix. I traced the stitching with my thumb. "I knew about her six months ago."

Spencer pushed off the window sill. "What?"

"On his birthday." I draped the damp towel over the back of his desk chair. "He left his phone unlocked on the kitchen counter while he was blowing out his candles. One hundred and forty-two messages between him and Coraline."

"You counted them?"

"I scroll fast."

"And you didn't say a single word."

"There was nothing to say." I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my chin in the collar of his oversized gray hoodie. "I read the first ten. They were talking about a study group. By message fifty, he was calling her late at night. By message one hundred, he was telling her she understood him better than anyone."

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "He said that to you last week."

"He recycles his material. It's efficient."

"You should have confronted him."

"Why? So he could lie to my face? So he could call me paranoid?" I dropped my hands to my lap. "I just closed the door on him right then. He evaporated. I looked at him cutting that stupid ice cream cake, and I felt absolutely nothing."

Spencer stared at the towel on his chair, then shifted his gaze to me. The harsh lines around his mouth softened, just a fraction.

"So you've been playing along for half a year?" he asked, his tone sharpening again.

"I haven't been playing anything. I just stopped caring."

"You let him parade around thinking he was fooling you."

"It kept him busy." I tugged the long sleeves over my hands. "And it kept me from having to have a messy public breakup. Until tonight, apparently."

Spencer walked over to the bed. "Stand up."

"I told you, I'm tired."

"Stand up, Juniper. You're soaking my mattress."

I slid off the edge, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor.

He didn't yell. He didn't complain about the water damage a second time. Instead, he grabbed the corners of the fitted sheet and stripped it off the mattress with quick, efficient pulls. He bundled the damp fabric in his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle for someone who looked ready to punch a wall.

"I can sleep on the floor," I offered, watching him pull a fresh set of dark blue sheets from the bottom drawer of his dresser.

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

"It's your bed."

"I'll take the floor." He tossed a clean pillowcase onto the bare mattress. "Help me with the corners."

I grabbed the top left corner of the fitted sheet, stretching the elastic over the edge. "You're very accommodating for a guy who claims I'm a menace."

"I just want to go to sleep."

"You were trying to study ten minutes ago."

"Now I'm trying to sleep." He smoothed out the wrinkles on his side of the bed, his hands moving with measured precision. "Because my roommate is currently screaming his lungs out in the courtyard, and his ex-girlfriend is ruining my laundry cycle."

"I'll do your laundry."

"You don't know how to separate colors."

"I know how to separate colors."

"You washed my white t-shirt with a red sock last semester. It's still pink."

"It brings out your eyes."

Spencer glared at me across the mattress. "My eyes are brown."

"Exactly."

He snapped the top sheet in the air, letting it float down over the bed. "You are unbothered by all of this."

"I told you. I processed this breakup six months ago."

"He didn't."

"He's confessing to someone else over a PA system."

"Technicalities."

Spencer grabbed his pillow and shoved it into the new case. "He's going to come up here."

"Andrew? He's probably halfway to the diner by now."

"No." Spencer tossed the pillow against the headboard. "He wants the drama. He wants you to cry. When you didn't show up in the courtyard, it ruined his script."

"I don't cry over boys who buy cheap microphones."

"He'll still expect it."

"Let him expect it." I climbed right back onto the freshly made bed, crossing my legs in the center of the dark blue sheets. "I'm comfortable right here."

Spencer let out a harsh breath, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"You're secretly a softie."

"I'm kicking you out in the morning."

"Sure you are."

The cheering outside faded into a low murmur, then nothing. The microphone feedback whined one last time before clicking off. The show was over.

"Told you," I said, leaning back against the wall. "He's gone."

"Don't bet on it." Spencer crossed his arms, staring at the closed wooden door.

Silence stretched between us. The rain lashed against the windowpane, filling the quiet space in the room. I picked at a loose thread on the gray hoodie, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it was.

"If he comes up here," I said, keeping my voice low, "what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"You're not going to defend my honor?"

"You don't need me to defend your honor. You need me to provide fresh linens."

"You're a terrible knight in shining armor."

"I'm an engineering major."

"Same thing."

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairwell.

Spencer froze. His jaw locked tight. He tilted his head toward the hallway.

The footsteps grew louder, slapping against the tile floor. They were moving fast. Sprinting. They didn't pass our door. They stopped right outside.

"Juniper!" Andrew's voice bled through the cheap wood, loud and frantic.

I didn't move. I just looked at Spencer.

"He thinks you're hiding in his room," Spencer whispered.

"This is his room."

"He thinks you're crying on his bed."

"His pillows smell bad."

The brass handle turned.

The door shoved inward, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.

Andrew stood in the threshold, chest heaving, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He held the stupid cheap microphone in his left hand. His eyes darted around the small space, ready to deliver his tragic apology speech.

Then he saw me.

Sitting in the middle of his roommate's bed.

Wearing his roommate's clothes.

Andrew's mouth fell open, and he didn't take another step.

Andrew stood paralyzed in the doorway. The cheap microphone slipped from his grip, clattering against the linoleum.

I didn't flinch. Instead, I tugged the cuffs of the oversized gray hoodie over my knuckles. Three months ago, I had sprinted into this exact room to escape a torrential downpour, and Spencer had chucked this very hoodie at my shivering frame; I just never found the right time to give it back.

"What are you doing?" Andrew demanded, his voice cracking.

"Sitting," I answered.

"I can see that." He gestured frantically at the hallway behind him. "Do you have any idea what's going on out there?"

"A public nuisance," I said. "And some very off-key chanting."

"They're waiting for you."

"They'll be waiting a long time."

"Why are you on his bed?" Andrew asked, his eyes darting from me, to the dark blue sheets, to Spencer leaning against the window sill.

"Your pillows smell bad," I said.

Andrew stepped into the room, his wet sneakers squeaking loudly. He ignored the microphone on the floor, kicking it aside. "Are you doing this to get back at me?"

"Get back at you for what?" I asked, keeping my tone level.

"For Coraline!" He pointed wildly toward the open door. "The whole campus is out there, Juniper. They all saw. I just poured my heart out. And you're up here, wearing my roommate's clothes, trying to make me look like an idiot!"

"You managed that on your own," Spencer interjected. He didn't move from the window, but his voice cut through the room like shattered glass.

Andrew spun on him. "Stay out of this, Spencer."

"It's my bed," Spencer noted. "And my hoodie."

"I don't care whose hoodie it is!" Andrew yelled. He turned back to me, the veins in his neck bulging. "You are insane. You couldn't handle the fact that I moved on, so you set this up. A pathetic revenge stunt. You wanted me to walk in here and find you looking like this."

"Looking like what?" I asked.

"Like you don't care!"

I let out a short, quiet laugh. "Moved on? That implies we were still together."

"We were together until ten minutes ago! I just ended it. Me. Not you."

"No, Andrew." I uncrossed my legs and planted my bare feet on the floor. "We were over six months ago. On your birthday."

His anger faltered. The flush drained from his cheeks, leaving him pale under the harsh fluorescent light. "What are you talking about?"

"The ice cream cake," I said. "The kitchen counter. Your unlocked phone."

He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"One hundred and forty-two messages," I stated. "Between you and Coraline. Before she was your grand destiny, she was just the girl you texted at two in the morning while I was asleep next to you."

"You went through my phone?"

"It was glowing on the counter."

"You're making this up."

"Message fifty-three," I said, tilting my head. "You told her she was the only one who truly understood your creative vision. Message eighty-nine, you complained about my laugh. You said it was too sharp."

Andrew took a step backward. His shoulder bumped into his own desk. "You read them."

"I read all of them."

"And you didn't say anything. For six months."

"There was nothing to say. You made your choice, and I made mine."

"You let me look like a fool!"

"You bought a megaphone to dump a girl who already dumped you in her head half a year ago. I didn't make you do that."

Andrew dragged a hand through his wet hair, leaving it sticking up in jagged spikes. "You're a liar. You're just saying this now to save face."

"I don't need to save face."

"You do! Everyone downstairs thinks you're crying your eyes out! They think you're crushed."

"Let them think it."

"I'm going to tell them the truth. I'm going to tell them you're a manipulative psycho who spies on her boyfriend."

Spencer pushed off the wall. "Watch your mouth, Andrew."

"Shut up!" Andrew yelled, turning his back on me. "This is between me and her."

"Not when you're screaming in my room."

"It's my room too!"

"Then act like it," Spencer shot back. "Pick up your trash and get out."

Andrew glared at him. "You knew about this. Didn't you?"

"I don't care about your love life," Spencer said flatly.

"You let her sit on your bed. You gave her your clothes."

"She was cold."

"She's my girlfriend!"

"Ex-girlfriend," I corrected softly.

Andrew whirled around to face me again. His chest heaved. "You think you're so smart. You think you won."

"There is no winning, Andrew. We just broke up."

"I broke up with you!"

"If that helps you sleep at night."

Footsteps hurried down the hall, slapping against the tile. Priya appeared in the doorway, breathless, her damp hair plastered to her cheeks. She took one look at the dropped microphone, Andrew's pale face, and me sitting on Spencer's bed.

"There you are," Priya said, panting. She stepped over the cheap microphone. "The RA is threatening to call campus security about the noise downstairs."

"Tell them to call," Andrew muttered, staring at the floor.

Priya ignored him. She walked straight over to Spencer's bed and grabbed my arm. "Come on. We need to go."

"I'm comfortable," I said.

Priya leaned down, her voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear. "Your transfer application. The dean's office emailed. The results come out this Friday."

I stiffened. My fingers tightened their grip on the gray hoodie.

"Let's go," Priya urged, pulling me upward.

I stood up. The oversized hoodie hung halfway down my thighs.

Andrew suddenly shoved his hand into his pocket. "It doesn't matter," he stammered, his eyes wide and frantic. "None of that matters. I'm deleting it. It never happened."

He yanked his phone out, his thumb swiping aggressively across the glass.

"Andrew, don't," Priya warned, stepping back.

"I'm erasing the whole thread!" he shouted.

He fumbled the device. The phone slipped from his sweaty palm, flipping backward as he tried to catch it. He grabbed it by the edges, but his grip was awkward.

The bright screen faced outward, visible to the room.

He had opened the chat history.

The one hundred and forty-two messages glowed harshly against the dark background.

Spencer stopped walking.