Page 3 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

A quiet, miserable voice spoke in my head: You are safe. You are alone. You are exactly where you planned to be.

But the dominant emotion wasn't safety; it was the sickening weight of disappointment in myself. I was lonely, but I had chosen this. I had pushed away the light, and now I was left with the safe, predictable darkness.

The door swung open again, and thankfully, it wasn't the human ray of sunshine. It was Maya, my best friend, my anchor, and my self-appointed chaos coordinator. She took one look at the minefield of canvases and paint tubes that was my half of the dorm room, paused dramatically, and then stepped inside with the practiced ease of a seasoned wilderness guide.

"Seriously, Iris?" Maya said, navigating the path around a tripod. She was wearing a perfectly fitted, no-nonsense black jumpsuit, a contrast to my distressed jeans and old Ashton art department hoodie. "It smells like a toxic relationship and sad decisions in here. Did you spray 'Emotional Isolation' perfume?"

"It’s oil paint, Maya, and it’s a necessary workspace for my emotional stability," I grumbled, sinking further into the desk chair.

Maya managed to find a clean spot on my bed—a feat of legendary skill—and sat, crossing her legs. "Your emotional stability is currently being maintained by avoiding all human contact. Which is what you do when you're about to implode. And what's with the face?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. I'm prioritizing my portfolio, which is what I came here to do."

"Uh-huh," she deadpanned. "And I'm assuming the prioritizing included telling your insanely hot, surprisingly available, and randomly assigned roommate that you'd rather spend Friday night with a dry canvas than human beings?"

"How do you know about her?" I challenged, crossing my arms.

"Iris, she’s Sophie Mercer. Star Captain, Golden Girl, walking endorsement for the Ashton Alumni Fund. She left the common room party twenty seconds ago after telling everyone in a ten-foot radius that her grumpy artist roommate wouldn't come out to play." She held up two fingers in air quotes. "She was devastated, by the way. By 'devastated' I mean she looked exactly two percent less cheerful than usual. Which, for her, is equivalent to an Oscar-worthy performance of tragedy."

I felt my cheeks flush, a frustrating heat. "Good. She should be. She's too much. She’s too... easy."

Maya leaned forward, her expression turning serious. She knew all about Riley—the cheating, the public shame, the "experiment" comment that still felt like a burn. "You are not starting senior year sulking because one person was a liar, Iris. I watched you break down last year. You are not putting yourself back into that cage. It wasn’t the betrayal that nearly ruined you, it was the isolation afterward."

"I am safe in the cage," I insisted, the bitterness creeping into my voice.

"You're lonely in the cage. I saw you looking at her, Ris. I saw the literal star-struck expression when she walked past us earlier. Don't punish the universe's attempt at a do-over just because you're scared of a bad ending. Not everyone is Riley."

I hated that she was right. Hated that my body still hummed with the memory of Sophie’s nearness, and hated that her rejection didn't feel like victory, but just another failure.

I sighed, a sound of utter defeat. "Fine. You win. What's the point of having a best friend if they aren't going to occasionally bully you into social events?"

Maya clapped her hands, her smile returning full force. "Exactly! Now get off your martyr desk, take off that relic of a hoodie, and let's make an entrance. We are going to the party, and you are not going to look like you're dressed for a hostage negotiation."

A low, familiar current of competitive energy—the artist needing to be seen, even by her enemy—sparked in my stomach. If I was going to be forced into the proximity of the radiant Sophie Mercer, I wouldn't do it looking like I just rolled out of a dumpster fire.

Twenty minutes later, the brooding, anxious artist was gone. I traded the jeans for a sharp, high-waisted black skirt, a dark silk tank top, and the vintage leather jacket Maya had gifted me last semester. The outfit took ten minutes to choose—a careful orchestration of looking cool, sharp, and entirely disinterested, while secretly screaming, Look at me, Sophie Mercer. Look at what you’re missing.

I met Maya’s approving gaze in the mirror.

"Much better," she confirmed. "You look like you're about to break hearts instead of having yours broken."

"Whatever you say," I muttered, but the truth was, I was just hoping Sophie would see me and recognize the effort, even if I couldn't admit who the effort was for.

"Let’s go," Maya said, pulling me toward the door. "The Golden Hour awaits."

The music hit us the moment we pushed through the common room doors. It was a dull, thumping bass line that seemed to vibrate directly in my teeth, but when the crowd parted, revealing the rooftop terrace, the sheer visual impact stole my breath.

It was The Golden Hour.

The sun, sinking below the Ashton University skyline, cast a hazy, perfect light—deep orange and honey-gold—across the scene. The terrace was packed with students, all radiating that effortless collegiate sheen that I usually found exhausting. But tonight, I was on high alert, scanning the crowd.

I didn't have to look for long.

Sophie Mercer wasn't just at the party; she was the gravitational center of it.

She was standing near the edge of the roof, holding court with a small group of friends—teammates, mostly, from the look of their jackets. Her pixie blonde hair, wet-styled from a recent shower, caught the sunset light like an actual halo. She was laughing at something one of her friends said, head tilted back, and the casual, physical affection she exchanged with everyone around her—a hand on a shoulder, a brief hip bump—sent a sharp, unwelcome ache through my chest. She looks like she belongs here, the small, venomous voice in my head whispered. Effortless. Everything you’re not.

"Don't stare, Iris. You look like you're calculating her taxes," Maya hissed, nudging me toward a deserted drink table.