I can still remember my first day at Princeton College like it was yesterday. My stomach was a nervous wreck — flipping like a gymnast at the Olympics. It wasn't just the fact that I was stepping into the dream school I had worked for all my life, or that I had finally escaped the lonely halls of Lincoln High School. No, it was the terrifying thought of sharing a room with a complete stranger for the first time.
I didn't come with my parents, obviously — they were too busy being important somewhere else in the world. Instead, my dad sent his ever-efficient secretary, Ms. Grace, who seemed more like a robot with a designer bag than an actual human being. She didn't say much except to tap her tablet aggressively and walk very fast. I practically had to jog behind her in my flats.
Once we arrived at the principal's office, a bunch of paperwork was shoved in front of me. I signed them all without really reading — mostly because Ms. Grace kept glancing at her Rolex like every second with me was a tragedy. After what felt like an hour in a chilly leather chair, I was finally escorted to my dorm room and told to meet my roommate.
And that's when I met Sophie Reynolds.
She burst through the door with the energy of a human firecracker, dragging two massive suitcases, a speaker blasting some kind of bass-heavy pop music that could wake the dead, and a smile so wide I thought her face might split in half.
"Heyyy roommate! I'm Sophie! But you can call me Soph! Or Queen Soph if you're feeling fancy!"
I blinked at her. Twice.
"Um… I'm Charlotte," I said quietly, clutching my bag like it was my emotional support animal. "Nice to meet you."
She plopped down on her bed, kicked off her designer sneakers, and started unpacking what I swear looked like an entire Sephora store. Lipsticks, lashes, eyeshadow palettes — the girl had enough makeup to start a beauty empire. Meanwhile, my side of the room had a stack of textbooks, a pair of noise-canceling headphones, and one sad little potted plant I named Wilson.
It didn't take me long to realize Sophie was the complete opposite of me.
She was loud, confident, glamorous, and had a laugh that could probably trigger car alarms. I was quiet, introverted, and preferred reading medical case studies while listening to soft jazz. Sophie lived for parties, boys, and social media. I lived for peace, privacy, and classical music. Our playlists alone were enough to cause a civil war.
The only things we had in common were:
1. We were both exceptionally smart (though she disguised it beneath all the glitter and gossip), and
2. We both loved music — albeit music from opposite planets.
Within 24 hours, I was convinced we wouldn't work. I couldn't bring myself to try. I retreated into my shell like a tortoise in a thunderstorm. I avoided eye contact, mumbled one-word replies, and stayed buried in my books. Sophie, however, was undeterred. She talked to me like we'd been best friends for years — offering me snacks, telling me wild stories about her high school days, and even trying to convince me to join her for a "Welcome Bash" that involved glow sticks and body glitter.
Needless to say, I declined.
Still, she didn't give up.
"Come on, Char," she'd say, using the nickname she invented for me two days in. "You're too pretty to hide behind those glasses. And girl, that hoodie's got more depression than my ex's Instagram."
I didn't know whether to laugh or hide under my bed. I did neither. I just smiled awkwardly and kept my headphones on.
The truth was — I was scared.
I was scared to trust.
Scared that if I let someone in, I'd just get left behind again.
Scared that Sophie would one day wake up and realize she didn't want a quiet, socially awkward roommate who preferred Mozart over Megan Thee Stallion.
So I kept my walls up.
But Sophie? Sophie just kept knocking.
And though I wouldn't admit it yet, part of me… was beginning to hope she wouldn't stop.