Page 4 of Written in Scent

“It is not adorable,” I mutter.

“It’s very adorable,” my mother corrects gently.

I adjust the strap on my bag and clear my throat. “Biology,” I say. “But I’m specializing in entomology.”

Sophie’s eyes widen rather than narrowing, which feels like a small victory. “That’s so cool.”

“Most people say that and then look mildly alarmed,” I admit.

“I don’t mind insects,” she says seriously. “They’re important.”

“They are,” I say, before I can stop the quick flare of pleasure in my chest.

My mother smiles at the exchange, then turns to Sophie. “And what about you?”

“Sociology,” she replies easily. “I want to study social structures. Group dynamics and communities, eventually.”

That makes sense, I think immediately. She carries herself like someone who notices how people fit together.

“That suits you,” my mother says warmly.

Sophie beams again, and for a moment I forget the tightness in my chest from earlier. She looks as excited to be here as I feel, just in a confident, more outward way.

Maybe that’s something we can share.

While my parents start organizing the boxes into neat stacks along the wall, I kneel beside one labeled DESK and pry it open.

The frames are right on top.

For a second I just look at them, my fingers resting on the edge of the tissue paper. I’m suddenly aware of Sophie watching from nearby, of the possibility that this might be the exact moment she realizes she’s been assigned a deeply strange roommate. If she freaks, I can always send them back with my parents…

I lift one out anyway.

The glass catches the light as I tilt it upright, revealing the pinned butterfly inside, its wings spread in a perfect gradient from deep rust to pale gold.

Sophie leans closer.

“That’s beautiful,” she says, and she means it. I can tell.

Some of the tightness in my chest loosens.

“It’s a red admiral,” I tell her, before I can stop myself. “Vanessa atalanta. They migrate, of course, but not in huge swarms like monarchs. They travel surprisingly far for something that weighs almost nothing.”

“That’s incredible,” she says, her voice lined with awe.

I blink. “Most people don’t say that.”

“Well,” she replies seriously, “most people are wrong.”

My mom glances over her shoulder, clearly pleased, while my dad nods at the specimen like it’s a particularly impressive certificate.

Encouraged, I reach into the box again and lift out the second frame, this one holding a beetle with a polished green shell that gleams like enamel.

“This is what I want to work with eventually,” I say, a little more subdued. “Field research. Classification. Migration tracking. That sort of thing.”

Sophie’s eyes light up. “That sounds amazing.”

I shrug, suddenly aware of how earnest I must sound. “It probably sounds boring to most people.”