Chapter One: Move-In Mayhem
I never imagined my new beginning would start with a broken suitcase, a soaked hoodie, and a roommate who introduced herself while sitting on a guy's lap.
"Welcome to campus life," I muttered under my breath, dragging the stubborn bag across the rain-slick pavement.
Crestwood University was supposed to be my fresh start. New faces, new classes, and finally—finally—distance from the chaos back home. Dad's affair had gone public just weeks before, Mom was drinking chamomile tea like it was vodka, and my little brother was stuck somewhere between anger and denial. Meanwhile, I was expected to pretend I was fine.
But as I stepped into the dorm room that smelled vaguely of Cheetos and lavender incense, I knew this place had its own chaos waiting for me.
"Hey! You must be Zoe!" the girl on the lap beamed, jumping up and nearly knocking over a lava lamp. "I'm Tessa, your roomie-slash-style consultant-slash-occasional bad influence. This is Logan. Ignore him, he just follows me around."
Logan waved lazily. "It's true."
I blinked. "Uh… hi?"
My phone buzzed. A text from Mom.
Don't forget to call your brother before bed. And remember, you don't have to be the strong one all the time. But also, be strong. Love you.
I rolled my eyes. The emotional whiplash was real.
"So, what's your major?" Tessa asked, flopping onto her bed and kicking her feet in the air.
"Psych. Family therapy, hopefully." I shrugged. "Ironic, right?"
Logan smirked. "That's cute. Trying to fix your family by studying dysfunctional people."
I opened my mouth to clap back, but he winked and disappeared out the door before I could think of a decent insult.
Tessa sighed. "Don't mind him. He's hot but chronically unserious. Anyway, unpack. We've got a party in two hours."
"A what?"
"Oh honey. You're at Crestwood now. Drama start
s at orientation and never stops."
I didn't plan to unpack right away, but my mom had jammed so much "emotional stability" into my duffel bag—folded sweaters, family photos, a journal with an embarrassing handwritten note inside—that I couldn't just leave it in a corner.
I started with the books. My safe zone.
Intro to Psychology. Family Dynamics. Theories of Development. A spiral-bound notebook labeled DON'T FIX PEOPLE, ZOE in Sharpie courtesy of my therapist aunt, who meant well, but always spoke like she was one sip away from burnout.
I glanced across the room.
Tessa had already covered her side in a chaotic rainbow of posters—Fleetwood Mac, Lana Del Rey, and one of some woman screaming underwater. It was the aesthetic of someone who'd lived five lives before twenty.
"Do you ever stop moving?" I asked as she zipped open another suitcase, this one full of shoes.
"I was born during an earthquake," she said without looking up. "I don't trust stillness."
I laughed despite myself. "Is that true?"
"Nope. But it sounds better than 'undiagnosed hyperactivity.'"
Okay, maybe this would work.
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door. Not the polite kind. More like the beat-your-door-down-until-you-answer kind.
Tessa rolled her eyes. "I swear, if it's Logan again…"
But it wasn't Logan.
It was a tall guy holding two iced coffees and looking mildly irritated, as if caffeine delivery was beneath him. His hoodie was half-zipped, hair tousled in a way that looked too intentional to be accidental, and his jawline could've carved glass.
"Coffee for Tessa and… whoever this is," he said flatly.
"Whoever this is has a name," I said, stepping forward. "Zoe."
He handed me the cup without meeting my eyes. "Right. Zoe."
"Wow," Tessa said, snatching hers and sipping. "Jason, try not to fall in love with my roommate five seconds in. It's awkward."
"I'll try," he said dryly, then turned on his heel and left.
The silence hung for a beat too long.
"Was that—?"
"Jason Vega," Tessa said, already moving again. "He's Logan's best friend. Drama magnet. Emotional unavailability in human form. But God, those cheekbones. Just wait 'til he sings."
"Sings?"
"Oh yeah. He's in a band. Writes songs like he's in pain. Probably is. His dad's some political hotshot. They hate each other. Classic Crestwood trauma."
Right. Because apparently college came with a side of soap opera.
I stared at the coffee cup in my hand. Zoe was written in neat block letters on the lid, which meant he'd asked for my name, even if he acted like he hadn't.
Interesting.
"I'm not going to that party," I said, mostly to convince myself.
Tessa paused, one glittery boot in hand. "You say that now. But everyone thinks they're immune to the chaos. Spoiler alert: they're not."
---
It was later than I thought when I finally sat on my bare mattress, surrounded by unopened bags and half-folded clothes. The window was cracked open, and the breeze smelled like fresh rain and campus grass. Somewhere in the distance, I could already hear music.
Not loud enough to bother me. Just loud enough to make me wonder what I'd be missing.
My phone buzzed again.
Dad: Heard you moved in. Good luck. Let me know if you need money.
No love you, no I'm proud of you. Just a text that read more like a transaction than affection.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I pulled out the old photo my mom had tucked between my socks—a shot of all four of us at the beach, back when we still fit into a picture without resentment crowding the frame.
Maybe Tessa was right. Maybe chaos wasn't something you escaped. Maybe it just changed ZIP codes.
But I was here now.
And something in Jason's eyes—closed off, annoyed, sharp—told me this place had more stories than the brochure let on.
Tomorrow, classes started. Tonight?
I might just go to that party after all.