Chapter Five: The Digital Audit

Our dorm room currently smelled like expensive vanilla perfume, fresh laundry sheets, and the distinct, crisp scent of a brand-new rug we'd only unrolled twenty-four hours ago.

​By Wednesday night, Room 304 had fully transitioned from a sterile white box into a functional sanctuary. The fairy lights were tapped to a low, warm amber hue, casting soft shadows across the cream duvet where I was currently sprawled on my stomach. I was wearing an oversized, faded grey Brookhaven High vintage tee that hung off one shoulder, paired with simple black ribbed biker shorts.

​Across the small expanse of our rug, Talia was sitting cross-legged on her emerald green bed, looking effortlessly put-together even in a white ribbed tank top, grey low-rise sweatpants, and a silk bonnet protecting her laid edges.

​My side of the room was a direct reflection of my entire soul: soft pastel pink accents, light blue velvet throw pillows that gave the institutional twin bed an editorial lift, stacks of thick psychology textbooks, and a small glass tray holding three different bottles of vanilla eau de parfum. It was bright, curated, and highly visual—the exact kind of space designed to keep a minor existential crisis at bay.

​"I'm just saying, if the syllabus for an introductory class is already twenty-two pages long, the midterm is going to feel like a deposition," I murmured, staring down at my open laptop screen before sliding it shut with a heavy sigh.

​"Forget the syllabus, Kelsey," Talia said, not looking up from her phone as she meticulously filed down a thumbnail. "You've been back from that lecture for a full day and you still haven't looked him up. The people need entry protocols for Friday. I need entry protocols."

​I rolled over onto my back, staring up at the ceiling loops of our lights, my phone resting against my stomach. Okay, let's take a quick internal pause here. Because the truth is, I hadn't looked him up yet because I was doing the mental math. In Brookhaven, if a cute guy gave you his handle, you waited exactly four hours to make sure you didn't look like you were sitting by the mailbox. But Ashcroft was a different court, and Malik wasn't just a high school quarterback who lived down the street.

​"I'm opening the app now, chill," I said, flipping back over and unlocking my screen.

​I typed the handle he'd entered into the search bar. The second the profile popped up, I froze.

​"Uh, Talia?" I leaned over the edge of my mattress, holding the phone out toward her. "Look at this real quick."

​Talia dropped her nail file onto her duvet, her interest instantly piqued as she lunged across the small gap between our beds to grab the phone. Her jaw didn't drop—Talia didn't do shocked expressions—but her eyes widened just a fraction behind her clear screen-protector glasses.

​The screen read: malik_thompson. Verified blue checkmark. The follower count was sitting at a casual 104k.

​His profile grid was a clean, high-contrast mix of high-intensity action shots under stadium lights—muscles strained, sweat glistening on rich dark skin as he drove toward a hoop—and casual, effortlessly sharp off-duty fits in front of sleek cars or concrete campus backdrops. The bio was simple: Ashcroft Basketball. Sophomore. A lone basketball emoji next to a link for an upcoming college showcase page.

​"Oh," Talia purred, her thumb scrolling through a shot of him standing in a tunnel wearing a tailored tech-fleece suit, looking every bit like an aspiring NBA lottery pick who already had a stylist on retainer. "Oh, Kelsey. This isn't just a regular sophomore athlete. This man has an actual fan club. Look at the comments. It's literally just rows of fire emojis from girls across three different states."

​"Right?" I took the phone back, my internal radar doing a quick, sharp recalibration. "In class, he was just sitting there with a single notebook and a sports drink like he was regular fine. He didn't mention the verification."

"Because he knows he doesn't have to," Talia said, her eyes glowing with pure, tactical excitement. "A man with a six-figure follower count doesn't need to announce his stats. Don't DM him on I*******m, everyone does that. Search the username on Snap. Fine athletes are lazy; they use the same handles for everything."

​I switched apps, typed the name into Snapchat, and sure enough, the exact same profile image popped up. I tapped the add button, my heart doing a tiny, ridiculous flutter against my ribs that I immediately suppressed. "Done. Now we wait."

​We didn't even have to wait five minutes.

​I was in the middle of unlocking my phone again when the screen lit up on the duvet.

​malik_thompson added you back!

​Talia literally leaped from her bed onto mine, the mattress springs giving a loud, violent creak under our combined weight. We didn't just smile—we let out that high-pitched, collective girl-squeal, the kind that only happens when a plan lands exactly where it's supposed to. We were jumping up and down on the edge of the frame, laughing as Talia grabbed my arms, the sheer, ridiculous rush of nineteen-year-old energy completely taking over Room 304.

​BANG. BANG. BANG.

​The heavy wooden door to our room rattled violently against the frame, the sound cutting through our laughter like cold water.

​The room went dead silent. Talia and I exchanged a single, knowing look.

​I slid off the bed, my standard Brookhaven peace-keeper instinct automatically kicking in as I smoothed down my oversized shirt. "Let me just handle it politely, Talia. First week nerves, you know?"

​"No," Talia said, her voice dropping into that low, icy register she used whenever someone tried to cross a boundary. She stepped past me, her bare feet hitting the linoleum with deliberate purpose as she wrenched the door open.

​Standing in the threshold of Room 303 was the exact same nightmare from move-in day—Phiona. She was a freshman too, but she carried herself with this bitter, defensive chip on her shoulder. She was the kind of girl who looked at people like Talia and me, decided we were just entitled, pretty bitches who had everything handed to us, and made it her personality to hate us for it. She was standing there in a faded velvet robe, her short, bleached-blonde hair sticking up in three different directions, her face contorted into an aggressive scowl.

​"Are you two actual toddlers?" Phiona rasped, her voice cutting through the quiet hallway like a rusty saw. "It's past eleven. Some of us are trying to sleep off an actual day of work, and I don't need the floorboards vibrating because you two got a text message. Shut the hell up or I'm calling the RA."

​I stepped up beside Talia, my polite smile already forming. "We are so sorry, we just got a bit carried away—"

​"Save it, Kelsey," Talia interrupted smoothly, her voice completely calm, devoid of any high school shouting or cheap drama. She stood tall, her posture perfectly erect, looking down at Phiona with a cold, aristocratic indifference. "First of all, quiet hours don't start until midnight on a Wednesday according to the housing handbook we all signed. Second of all, you slammed your door so hard on Monday that our corkboard literally fell off the wall. We didn't call the RA then, because we assume adults can manage their own space."

​Phiona blinked, her mouth opening slightly as she tried to find her footing against Talia's total lack of fear. "Listen here, you little—"

​"No, you listen," Talia said, her tone sharp, quiet, and completely unyielding. "We're going to keep our volume down because we actually respect the hall. But if you come to our door barking like a stray dog again instead of knocking politely, we will have a very long conversation with the housing director about the smell coming out of 303. Have a good night."

​Before Phiona could even muster a response, Talia took the handle, pulled the door shut with a firm, decisive click, and locked it.

​I stood there for a second, my eyes wide as I looked at my roommate. "Talia. You are actually lethal."

​"She needed a boundary, Kelsey," Talia said, completely unfazed as she walked back to her bed and slid her silk bonnet back into place. "You can't kill everyone with kindness here. Some people just need to know the price of admission."

​By Thursday afternoon, the high-intensity rush of the digital world faded into the beautiful, sun-drenched reality of the campus wellness lawns.

​I wasn't the type to hit the gym for a high-intensity, sweaty weight session—that wasn't my vibe at all. But a slow, intentional yoga session on the grass? Absolutely. Bianca and I had laid out our matching mats under the shade of a massive willow tree on the campus lower quad. The afternoon air was warm, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant university fountain water.

​I was wearing a pastel pink matching activewear set—high-waisted leggings and a low-back sports bra—with my curls tied high in a loose pineapple bun. Bianca was stretched out next to me in a sleek, all-black ribbed unitard, looking completely effortless as she leaned back onto her forearms.

​"I didn't think you were the type to actually wake up for physical activity," Bianca noted, a dry, amused smirk touching her lips as she watched me hold a gentle warrior pose.

​"Yoga doesn't count as standard exercise, it's a mental reset," I said, lowering my arms and sitting cross-legged on my mat. "Back home, I used to do this in the garden whenever the house got too loud. My dad's a civil engineer, so there was constantly someone talking about blueprints or concrete scaling at the breakfast table."

​Bianca let out a low, genuine chuckle, leaning back onto her elbows. "Sounds chaotic. My house was just very curated and very loud in a completely different way. I have two gay dads, and they own a boutique shopping mall back in Connecticut, so my breakfast table was just them aggressively debating window displays and fall color palettes over espresso."

​I grinned, looking at her structured black unitard with a newfound appreciation. "Okay, so the immaculate wardrobe makes total sense now. You were literally raised in a mall."

​"Pretty much," Bianca said, a dry, amused smirk touching her lips. "I spent my entire childhood running through department stores. Coming here and dealing with people like the girl in 303 is definitely a cultural shift. My dads would have had Phiona banned from the property for that bleached hair alone."

​"Phiona," I supplied, rolling my shoulders back. "Talia found out her name from the floor registry. She's definitely committed to the villain arc."

​"She's committed to being miserable," Bianca corrected smoothly, unrolling her shoulders.

​I laughed, feeling the natural, easy rhythm of our friendship finally locking into place. It wasn't forced; we were just two completely different puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly over shared space and a mutual appreciation for good energy.

​Ten minutes later, we rolled up our mats, threw on our slides, and headed over to the student plaza's outdoor food court. The terrace was gorgeous—all string lights, modern wooden benches, and large canvas umbrellas surrounded by trendy local food stalls. We grabbed two iced boba teas from a corner kiosk—matcha for Bianca, classic brown sugar milk tea for me—and snagged a high-top metal table right near the edge of the terrace.

​I was just taking my first sip when Bianca leaned back slightly, her dark eyes shifting toward the central brick path leading from the athletic complex. A cool, knowing smirk instantly crossed her face.

​"Speaking of popular," Bianca murmured, her voice dripping with dry amusement. "Guess who is currently walking right behind your chair."

​My heart did a sudden, sharp skip. Okay, internal camera check. Do I look back? Absolutely not. Rule number one of the Brookhaven playbook: you never turn your head like a lighthouse the second a fine boy walks into the perimeter. You play it completely cool, like you're fully engrossed in your brown sugar boba.

​"Is he actually looking over here?" I whispered aggressively, leaning forward across the table, my hazel eyes wide. "Is he coming toward us?"

​"He broke away from three separate guys the second he spotted your curls, Kelsey. He's currently tracking a target," Bianca reported deadpan, not breaking eye contact with me.

​A second later, a deep, smooth chuckle sounded right above my shoulder.

​"You guys look a lot more relaxed than you did during the syllabus breakdown," Malik said.

​I turned my head with a slow, perfectly rehearsed tilt, letting a bright, easy smile snap into place. Malik was standing right next to our table, completely in his element. He was wearing his dark green varsity athletic shorts and a white sleeveless training jersey that showed off the clean lines of his broad shoulders and flawless dark skin. He had a sports towel draped over one shoulder and was holding an insulated water bottle. He looked relaxed, incredibly fine, and fully aware of the space he took up.

​"That's because nobody is threatening us with a forty percent midterm exam out here," I said, matching his calm, grounded energy.

​Malik's lazy, signature smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. He leaned his hip against the edge of the high-top table, completely unbothered by the fact that a few girls at the neighboring table were actively staring at him. His dark eyes locked onto mine with total, undivided focus. "Fair enough. What's the drink?"

​"Brown sugar boba," I said, holding up the plastic cup. "A medical necessity after an hour of yoga."

​"Yoga? So you're flexible," Malik murmured, his tone smooth, casual, and laced with a subtle, playful heat that made my chest tighten in the best way possible. He didn't push it too far; he just let the words hang in the air with a confident, lazy charm. "I'll keep that in mind for the court. I usually just stick to heavy lifting, but the coach says my mobility needs work."

​"Maybe you should join us next time, sophomore," I teased, raising an eyebrow. "See if you can actually keep up."

​"I might just take you up on that, Kelsey," he said, his voice dropping a register as his eyes lingered on my face for a fraction of a second longer. He straightened up, adjusting the towel on his shoulder, before turning his gaze directly to Bianca. "See you guys Friday night. The door list is fully locked." He gave Bianca a genuine, respectful nod. "Catch you later, Bianca."

​"See you, Malik," Bianca replied, her voice cool but friendly.

​Malik gave me one last, lazy grin before turning around, his long, athletic strides carrying him effortlessly across the plaza toward the dorm quadrangles.

​The second his broad back cleared the edge of the terrace bushes, the cool, unbothered facade completely shattered.

​I grabbed Bianca's hands across the metal table, and the two of us let out a muffled, high-intensity low scream, our shoulders shaking as we giggled hysterically.

​Oh, my god. The look? Flawless. The eye contact? Absolutely lethal. If Cher Horowitz and Zoey Johnson had a masterclass on campus encounters, I had just cleared the board.

​"Kelsey," Bianca laughed, shaking her head as she took a sip of her matcha. "He didn't even try. That man is dangerous."

​"Incredible," I breathed, leaning back against the metal chair, the warm afternoon sun washing over my skin as the sound of campus life hummed around us. Friday night was officially on the horizon, the wardrobe was calling, and nineteen was officially turning out to be a completely different universe.