Go read "
Same Time Tomorrow
" before this. Re-read it if you have to. I'll wait.
Lexi's got a list.
Of course she fucking does.
Color-coded bins. Matching bedding. A framed photo of her and Marisol in senior prom gowns (cropped tight; no room for ghosts). She's perfect. Crisp. Curated. She triple-checks the move-in checklist her mom printed out and laminated because that's the kind of household she comes from. The kind where laminated lists are normal. Expected. Divine law.
Everything has a place. A drawer. A label. A fucking scent profile.
And for the first hour of college, it works. Lexi's side of the room blooms into soft pinks, pale golds, the sparkle of fairy lights she strung with surgeon-level precision. It smells like vanilla, ambition, and denial.
Then Morgan walks in.
Her new roommate. Chaos in a topknot. A film major with one sneaker half-tied, a backpack full of tangled chargers, and a tote bag that says Sappho would hate you personally.
She drops everything on her bed, flops back, and says, "So. You a screamer, or do you suffer in silence?"
Lexi blinks. "Excuse me?"
Morgan throws a bag of gummy worms at her. It hits Lexi's shoulder and falls to the floor. "You seem like the type who internalizes. Represses. Probably cries in single-stall bathrooms then re-applies mascara like a war crime never happened."
Lexi considers pretending she didn't hear her. Then she says, cool and clipped, "I'm Lexi."
Morgan grins like she's won something. "Morgan. She/her. Queer disaster. Nice to meet you, Barbie."
Lexi doesn't respond. Just leans over, picks up the gummy worms, and places them on Morgan's nightstand. Neatly. Like that's the peace offering they are.
Morgan unpacks with the casual violence of a girl who's moved too often to care. Lava lamp. Posters of old movies Lexi's never heard of. A half-broken ukulele. She hums tunelessly as she digs through her stuff.
Lexi finishes organizing her stationary.
Morgan puts on music.
It's a playlist. One of those artsy, genre-less, time-doesn't-exist kind of playlists. A song comes on--low vocals, scratchy lo-fi beat--and Lexi freezes. Just for a breath. Just for the memory.
Sylvia, in her car. Blasting "Red Wine Supernova." Hair out the window. Hand on Lexi's thigh, smirking like she owned the sun. "This one's ours now," she'd said. "No takesies backsies."
Lexi stands too quickly.
"I'm gonna call my mom," she says. She's already at the door.
Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Sure."
Lexi doesn't call her mom.
She sits on the dorm stairwell. Cold concrete under her thighs. Hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan even though it's eighty degrees out.
She breathes.
Like the world might collapse again.
Because sometimes it still feels like it will. Like she's still in that car. Still gripping the steering wheel. Still hearing Sylvia's voice mid-sentence, then--
Silence.
That moment lives in her. Behind her ribs. Every breath fights past it.
She rubs her wrists. Then her eyes. Then she stands up, like that'll fix it.
Back in the room, Morgan's lying on her bed, upside down, reading Sylvia Plath.
Of fucking course.
The week passes in a blur of syllabi and icebreakers and Lexi pretending. Pretending to be someone without a grave in her chest. She smiles when she has to. She joins two clubs. She answers every question in Political Theory with just enough authority to remind people she's not new to winning.
Morgan watches her.
Not in a creepy way. Just... notices.
Sometimes she asks questions Lexi doesn't want to answer.
"Do you always overachieve this hard, or is it just a trauma response?"
Lexi doesn't flinch. "Both."
Morgan whistles. "Yikes. Brutal. Want a gummy worm?"
Lexi takes one.
They eat in silence.
One night, Lexi has a dream.
It's not violent. Not loud.
It's just Sylvia. Sitting at the foot of her dorm bed, fingers tracing the blanket like she's memorizing the texture. Her hair is longer. Her eyes are soft.
"I'm glad you made it," dream-Sylvia says.
Lexi wants to touch her. Can't. She's frozen.
"I didn't," Lexi says.
Sylvia smiles. "I know."
When she wakes up, her pillow is wet.
She doesn't tell anyone.
Morgan invites her to a queer student mixer. Lexi says no.
Then yes.
Then changes her mind again and shows up late.
Everyone is so loud. So comfortable. They talk about pronouns and hookups and playlists and favorite drag queens. Lexi stands by the snack table, pretending to be interested in vegan cookies.
A girl smiles at her.
Lexi panics and leaves.
Morgan finds her sitting outside twenty minutes later.
"You lasted longer than I expected," she says, lighting a joint.
Lexi doesn't ask for a hit. Just stares at the sky.
"Was she your first?" Morgan asks.
Lexi turns to her. Eyes cold.
"Was she your last?"
Lexi says nothing.
Morgan exhales smoke. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
They start sleeping in the same bed sometimes.
Not like that. Just--Morgan gets cold. Or Lexi has a nightmare. Or neither of them wants to be alone.
Morgan's skin is warm. Her breath smells like mint and sarcasm.
Lexi doesn't reach for her.
But sometimes, she almost does.
One night, Morgan stirs. Half-asleep, she says, "You can cry, you know. I won't tell anyone."
Lexi stares at the ceiling. Her throat aches.
She doesn't cry.
But she doesn't sleep either.
Lexi barely eats. She barely speaks. She drinks espresso like water and studies like it's an act of violence. Perfection is the only thing she knows how to control.
Then one day, she forgets her flashcards.
It shouldn't be a big deal.
But it is.
She stares at her spotless planner. Blank where her notes should be. Her hand starts shaking.
Morgan finds her twenty minutes later, sitting on the bathroom floor, mascara streaked, holding her breath like it's the only thing she has left.
Morgan doesn't say anything.
Just sits down next to her. Offers a gummy worm.
Lexi takes it.
Bites it in half.
Lets herself breathe again.
That night, Morgan reads her a poem.
Not her own. Some spoken word thing about grief and sex and memory. Lexi listens with her eyes closed.
I want to remember you in pieces--
the way grief teaches: out of order,
backward, sideways,
drunk.
I want to forget you in the same breath
that I taste your name in someone else's mouth.
You left a dent in me.
Not a wound.
A dent.