Jeremy throws his sock at my head before I even shut the door.
"Are you serious?" he snaps. "You gave away my bed like it's a raffle prize?"
I ignore him, tossing my backpack on the floor beside the dresser. Senna hasn't come up yet. Probably waiting to not make this worse.
Jeremy glares. "You could've warned me."
"You could've not been an ass to her since freshman year," I say casually, yanking my hoodie off and hanging it on the bedpost.
He groans. "Luca. Dude. You know how this looks?"
I don't answer.
Because yeah. I do know how it looks.
It looks like I chose her.
It is me choosing her.
He keeps pacing like he's building up to something, arms flailing like he's performing for an invisible camera.
"You do realize she's the scholarship kid, right?" he says finally, voice pitched like he's telling me a secret about mold.
I shoot him a look. "What's your point?"
"She's not... one of us."
There it is.
The phrase I grew up hearing at country club brunches and dinner table conversations that made my stomach twist. Said about anyone who didn't have a trust fund, a summer home, or a last name you'd find on a building.
"She's not trying to be one of you," I mutter, grabbing my toothbrush and heading to the sink. "She's just trying to be."
Jeremy's footsteps fade down the hallway, swallowed by patterned carpet and polite silence.
I stare at the door he slammed shut.
She's not one of us.
Like that's supposed to mean something. Like "us" is some sacred bloodline carved in gold leaf and ivy league acceptance letters.
He doesn't even realize how cruel that sounds anymore.
Or maybe he does.
I sit on the edge of the hotel bed, fingers laced. The TV's off. The curtains are drawn. The room feels too quiet — like a secret waiting to break.
Senna's name is still ringing in my head.
I haven't stopped thinking about her since we got here.
Not just because she looked out of place. Not because she didn't have a room or her name on the list or a teacher who even remembered she was supposed to be here.
But because I've seen that look before.
Her name wasn't Senna.
She was thirteen. Just like me.
New girl at a school fundraiser my parents dragged me to. Small, soft-spoken. Wore a dress that didn't fit right — not trendy, just careful. A man said something to her near the table with the wine. Something quiet, and cruel. She shrank back. I saw her eyes.
No one else noticed.
Or pretended not to.
She left early. I asked my mom about her later. She said, "She's from the church side. They're fragile. Always crying about something."
And I said nothing.
I told myself it wasn't my business. That it would blow over. That adults would handle it.
But no one did.
She transferred schools three weeks later.
I never forgot her eyes.
So when I saw Senna in the lobby tonight — holding her sketchpad like armor, wearing her silence like a wound — it hit something I thought I'd buried.
The shame of silence.
The cost of looking away.
I could ignore this.
Let her figure it out. Pretend it's not my problem. Keep my place, my name, my easy laugh at the rich kid table.
But that girl's eyes are still in my head.
And Senna's silence feels too familiar.
I get up. Pull the extra pillow from the closet. Unfold the blanket on the end of the bed. Leave space.
Because when the knock comes — soft and unsure — I already know who it's for.
And this time, I won't stay quiet.
It's quiet now.
Just me, one empty bed, and the second one I made earlier for her. Neat. Respectful.
I hear a soft knock.
I open the door.
Senna's standing there, hoodie sleeves past her hands, holding her sketchbook like a shield.
She looks at me for a long second. "I can sleep on the floor."
"No," I say immediately. "You won't."
"I don't want people talking."
"They're already talking."
She swallows hard. "I hate that."
I do too.
But I also hate the idea of her sleeping alone in a hallway more than I hate their gossip.
She walks in quietly.
Takes the far bed.
Sits on the edge like it might break.
I toss her a spare water bottle from the nightstand.
"Drink something," I say gently. "You look like you forgot how."
She smiles, just barely. "Bossy."
"Always."
We don't say much after that.
She crawls under the blanket. I do the same.
The room settles into a calm, soft kind of silence.
No fireworks. No grand declarations.
Just two people breathing in the same quiet, letting it hold them.
But even as I lay there staring at the ceiling - trying to ignore the group chat pings on my phone lighting up with questions and passive-aggressive comments - I know something's shifted.
I chose her in front of them.
I'd do it again tomorrow.
And the day after that.
Because if this school has made anything clear, it's that they'd rather pretend people like Senna don't exist.
And if I can't fix that system - I'll at least burn the silence down.
One choice at a time.