Clark POV:
I lay on that unfamiliar mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to the slow, rhythmic hum of the building. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked, then slammed. Someone laughed—too loud, too long. The wind outside scraped faintly against the windows, like fingers tracing the glass.
Still no reply from Sara. My last message just hung there, delivered, unread.
I tried not to spiral, tried to tell myself she was just busy. She was probably knee-deep in open suitcases, already gossiping with her roommates about who's hot, who's weird, and which prof has the ugliest shoes. That's what girls did, right?
Maybe it was the shaken figure curled up on the other bed, wrapped tight in the covers like the walls might cave in. I didn't even know his name. I'd literally just arrived at the dorms, and now this?
