Chapter Text
Zoey
“Zoey! Get up!”
A muffled groan came from beneath the heap of blankets. Zoey buried her face deeper into her pillow. “Go away…” she mumbled.
“Zoey, I swear to God—get up, you little shit.”
The blanket was ripped clean off her. A rush of cold air hit her skin like punishment for sleeping in. She peeked out with one bleary eye and glared at the tall shadow standing beside her bed.
“Mira,” she rasped, “what’s your damage? I’m sleeping.”
Mira, arms crossed, loomed like some divine avenger in pink hair and tank top. “Yeah, and it’s 8:30. You still have to print your essay for that class at nine. Remember that tiny little thing called a deadline?”
“…Wait.” Zoey blinked at her clock, watching the red digits swim into focus. 8:18. “Crap.”
“Exactly. Oh crap. How are you still alive at this point? You pull this every week.” Mira clicked her tongue like an exasperated mom. “If you sprint, you might still find an open computer. Might.”
Adrenaline accomplished in seconds what her alarm had spent all morning failing to do. Zoey jolted upright, muttering a garbled litany of sleepy curses as she frantically yanked on jeans and a hoodie. Mira’s voice followed her in the background—something about calendars and “adult choices”
But Zoey’s attention was entirely consumed by the battle of hair versus fingers and the tactical cramming of a half-eaten granola bar between her teeth.
Five minutes later, she shot out of the dorm like a caffeinated comet, backpack thumping against her spine.
The campus was muted, washed pale by the earliest sun, and she practically broke the sound barrier bolting toward the library.
The double doors surrendered with a dramatic swing, welcoming her into a pocket of unnatural quiet. Cold air settled around her, the hush almost holy compared to the usual chaos—a morning warzone of sleep-deprived scholars. Today, just a handful of bleary-eyed survivors hunched at computers, their typing urgent and thunderous in the silence.
Usually, mornings here were a warzone of procrastinators.
Instead, only a few bleary-eyed survivors hunched at computers, typing like their lives depended on the next keystroke.
Zoey stopped, blinking. “Weird,” she muttered. “Where’s the apocalypse crowd?”
It was eerily peaceful, almost too peaceful. Maybe everyone was sick. Maybe there’d been a campus-wide hangover. Either way, fate had finally decided to cut her a break.
“Don’t jinx it, don’t jinx it,” she whispered to herself, claiming a computer at the far end of the row.
Her bag hit the desk with a soft thud, and she slid into the chair, tapping her student ID against the scanner. The login spinner mocked her with its slow, circular dance.
As she waited, she thought of Mira—still standing in their room, probably muttering about responsibility—and cracked a grin. She really did owe her one. Maybe she’d grab a coffee as a peace offering.
If she survived this print job first. And classes.
Zoey tried, futilely, to tame her hair using the faint reflection on the computer screen. It was a losing battle. Strands stuck out in chaotic declarations of defiance, the inevitable aftermath of a five-minute morning sprint. She sighed and gave up. Life was too short to care about what strangers thought of your bedhead.
Anyway, who would even notice her down here in the graveyard shift of the academic day?
The computer wheezed through its start-up process. As she waited, Zoey’s eyes wandered—first to the ugly yellow walls and mismatched carpet, then to the row of narrow windows filtering in thin, lazy light. Her gaze followed a beam of it across the room until it landed on a solitary table, glowing like it had been touched by divine favor.
Someone sat there.
At first glance, nothing unusual—just a student hunched over a book. But something about her stopped Zoey’s brain mid-scroll.
The girl’s hair was the first thing. A river of purple that shimmered between violet, lavender, and someplace near electric blue when it caught the light. The braid started high at her head and wound all the way down her back, thick and heavy like something mythical. Even from across the room, Zoey could tell it wasn’t a rush job; it looked crafted, deliberate, the kind of plait that took time and patience.
Beautiful. She’s stunning.
The thought landed uninvited. Like a wrecking ball.
Zoey blinked, turned back to her screen, pretended to care deeply about the “Welcome to Student Portal” login box. Nope. Not today. She had an essay to print. A grade to salvage. Definitely not time for… whatever this was.
But she couldn’t help it.
She couldn’t.
Her eyes drifted back. Back to the girl’s face, which flickered in and out of view behind the book. And she noticed it, how her face was heart-shaped, delicate, high cheekbones, her eyes tracing lines on the page with a lazy, dreamy intensity.
There was a quietness about her too, like she existed in a bubble of her own calm frequency, perfectly detached from the rest of the world’s chaos. From Zoey’s chaos.
Had she seen her before? Zoey frowned. Purple hair wasn’t an easy thing to forget. Maybe she was an upperclassman. Or a transfer. Or some ghostlike genius who spent her life hidden in the library.
Either way—she’s stunning. Had she said that yet? Stunning? Probably not the right word to describe how ethereal she looked.
Gorgeous? Dazzling? Exquisite? Breathtaking? Magnificent? Beauteous?
Zoey’s computer pinged to life, breaking the moment. Her essay popped up in Google Docs, a half-edited disaster. She forced herself to focus, scrolling, correcting, trying to breathe through the rising distraction. But her gaze slipped again, drawn back like a compass needle to the same point.
The girl turned a page. Zoey noticed her hands this time—small, strong-looking, with a gentle grace to them. When her sleeve slid back, a chunky silver charm bracelet caught the light, little moons and stars glinting as she moved. Everything about her felt soft, but not weak—more like the strength of still water, something you couldn’t touch without rippling it.
Zoey’s heart did a weird double-beat. She blinked it away. Focus. Focus. Focus.
But her mind betrayed her, spinning stories instead of thesis revisions. Maybe the girl was a physics major who secretly loved fantasy novels. Or an artist. Or some mysterious transfer who spoke fluent existentialism and drank jasmine tea. Maybe she dyed her hair in defiance of some cruel ex. Maybe she—
Zoey slapped her palm against her forehead. “Oh my God. Stop.”
She was definitely not having a gay panic over a total stranger. Absolutely not! She was definitely not admiring the way sunlight threaded through purple hair like divine embroidery, and she was not wondering how soft that braid looked, or whether the girl would smile if Zoey said something charming and stupid.
She was definitely not thinking of how her skin glowed softly under the library’s dim light.
She was definitely not thinking that her lips were a delicate shade of rose, as if kissed by the dawn.
She was definitely not imagining what the sound of her laughter might sound like, thinking that a single melody would brighten even the dullest of days.
The computer pinged again, loud, sharp, and merciless. Zoey jumped. 8:32. Less than twenty-seven minutes to finish, print, and maybe inhale a coffee before class.
She groaned. “Stupid classes, stupid essays, stupid—” Her words devolved into a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh. She started typing furiously, every keystroke twice as loud as it needed to be.
And still—every few sentences, her gaze drifted back.
The girl was different. No phone, no laptop, no anxious screen glow. Just her book, her thoughts, and that oblivious serenity that made the rest of the library feel tinny and overexposed. She radiated quiet. Intentional quiet. And Zoey, vibrating with caffeine and late deadlines, could only stare like the human embodiment of static.
What is wrong with me? She tried to reason with herself. The girl could be straight. Or worse—a minimalist. Or a religious zealot who thought Zoey was doomed not for being gay, but for double-majoring in music and not practicing enough. Or maybe she was a serial killer. You don’t know!
But logic didn’t help. If anything, it made the magnetic pull worse.
The girl adjusted her position, tucking one leg beneath her as she hunched over the book. Zoey caught the title—a battered old fantasy paperback that looked straight out of a middle school book fair. Somehow, that made her even more endearing.
Zoey’s brain was trying to write an essay, but her heart was writing poetry. Terrible poetry.
She’s cute. Too cute. Abort mission.
Her document blurred as she worked on the essay. She fixed a typo—five words out of two thousand—and forced herself onward. But her head was humming with the absurd idea that maybe, if she timed it right, she could walk past the purple-haired girl on her way to the printer. Maybe glance her way. Maybe even speak. Something casual. Civilized. Like, “Hey, cool hair,” or “What are you reading?” Something simple and non-disastrous.
The thought made her pulse spike. She closed her laptop, gathered her mess of loose papers, and exhaled like she was backstage before a performance. 8:39. She had time. Barely.
The printer was across the room. Past the purple-haired girl.
Zoey swallowed hard. Her heart was pounding like she’d just confessed a war crime. But she’d done scarier things, right? She’d come out to her parents. Stood up to a pretentious music-theory bro. Performed in front of hundreds of people.
How hard could walking past a cute girl be?
Too hard, probably. Way too hard.
Still, Zoey stood. And tried not to grin.
Zoey clicked “Print” and immediately regretted being alive.
She forced herself as she quickly logged off the computer.
The printer hummed like a helicopter powering up for takeoff. She tried to breathe normal air like a normal person, but her lungs had apparently noped out of the situation. Her essay was printing; all she had to do was pick it up, leave, and get to class.
Except she was sitting there.
The purple-haired girl.
Sitting in her halo of sunlight and serenity, completely oblivious to the emotional apocalypse happening twenty feet away.
Zoey tried to focus on her essay, on remembering her thesis statement, or anything that didn’t involve the breathtaking curve of that braid, how it gleamed violet one second and silvery-blue the next. But no. Her brain had betrayed her entirely.
Her fingers were trembling. Her heart was drumming loud enough that she thought she could hear it echo through the printer trays.
She told herself — you’re not going to stare.
She stared anyway.
The girl sat hunched over her book, one hand tucked under her chin, the other scrawling slow, deliberate notes in the margin. Her sweater looked soft and slightly frayed at the sleeves; maybe she’d mended it herself. Somehow, that detail made her even more devastatingly gorgeous.
Zoey swallowed hard.
Say something.
Her inner voice was cruel. But her courage was microscopic, barely visible to the human eye. She took a detour — slow, deliberate steps — toward a spot a few feet away from the girl, far enough that she wouldn’t show up in her peripheral vision. Perfect. Safe.
Here, she could breathe. Or pretend to.
Gosh, the girl was prettier up close.
Zoey shuffled her papers like that was her actual task, not, you know, stalking the prettiest girl in existence from ten feet away. She could totally speak from here. People talked across the library all the time. Probably.
She cleared her throat softly.
“Hey.”
The single word hit the silence like a rock thrown into a pond. Too loud. Her voice cracked halfway through the vowel. She froze. Looked around.
Some heads turned. Some people glanced her way, eyebrows raised. A guy nearby buried his face in his hands like he was witnessing a train wreck in slow motion. A girl across the room stifled a snort behind her textbook.
Zoey’s face swallowed into her neck.
The girl didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch.
Zoey’s heart hammered harder.
She lingered there, half-hidden behind a shelf, papers clutched in her hands like a barrier.
“I, um… I just wanted to say—cool hair.”
Instant regret.
Seriously, cool hair? That was her opening line? She could practically hear Mira laughing from the dorm.
No reply.
Zoey swallowed, her mouth suddenly impossibly dry. Then, spotting someone near the front rolling eyes toward her, she panicked and babbled faster.
“It’s just, uh… really purple. But not like — fake purple. You know, some people do that neon thing, but yours is like—uh, majestic? Magical? Crap. Forget I said that.”
Nothing.
Zoey felt the heat creeping up her ears but pressed on, noticing a few more people turning toward her now, some whispering and darting glances between her and the purple-haired girl. Someone even nudged their friend with a “Wow, this is public radio live.”
Zoey gave a sorry smile that was basically a grimace.
The girl underlined something, calm and focused.
Zoey bit her lip.
She tried again, voice cracking like a teenager’s first solo. “I love seeing people read real books. Everyone’s usually glued to their phones.”
Still no reaction.
Another whisper from a nearby dude: “Dude, this is uncomfortable.”
Zoey’s cheeks flamed hotter.
Small voice in her head: Stop. Just stop.
Okay, she was dying. This was it. This was how she died: buried alive by her own bad flirting.
She shuffled her pages again, pretending to proofread. The silence pressed against her temples. Every second stretched into eternity.
Zoey ignored it and cracked a nervous laugh. “I mean, I totally read fantasy novels too. Embarrassing ones with maps and invented languages. I swear I tried to learn Elvish in middle school. Didn’t go great.”
She glanced sideways at a girl smirking, mouthing “Oh no” like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.
Still nothing.
Zoey pushed forward regardless.
“But I did learn how to say ‘leaf’ and ‘doom’ in Quenya, so… that’s a skill, right?”
“Yeah, totally,” someone said from the far corner sarcastically.
Zoey scrambled for new lines, aware her entire performance was a catastrophe, a comedy of errors.
The girl didn’t move. Pages turned, pencil strokes glided.
Zoey checked the space between them like something might have shifted, but no — she was still out of the girl’s sight line, just a disembodied voice echoing into the void.
“Oh! And, uh—your bracelet’s cute,” she blurted, loud enough for the whole row to hear. “Mmm, the moon charms. Very… celestial.”
Silence.
Zoey’s dignity ebbed with every word.
Her thoughts scrambled.
“Do you… come here often?”
The words came out before she could stop them.
Her mouth instantly formed a perfect O of embarrassment.
Someone near the printer winced dramatically.
Zoey grabbed her face with one hand. “Oh God, no, wait! Not — like — that way!” She turned beet red. “I mean, it is a classic pickup line, but I wasn’t trying—ugh, forget it.”
Still no movement from the purple-haired girl.
Zoey inched backward, bumping a chair.
Her whole life flashed before her as she tried to make a dignified retreat.
Then catastrophe struck—a pile of her loose papers cascaded from her arms onto the floor like a confetti storm.
She bent with a low groan, trying to gather the mess.
A few spectators sighed theatrically, as if this was their daily entertainment.
Zoey’s jaw clenched. Mission abort. Burn the memory. Delete from brain.
Straightening, she stepped back and tripped on a stray paper, arms flailing in a farcical ballet.
“Whoa! Not like this!” she thought desperately, desperately trying to regain balance.
Her feet betrayed her, sending her into an unplanned twirl that drew gasps and suppressed laughter from several onlookers.
When she finally stopped spinning, she looked up to find the girl had turned a page without even noticing the emotional trainwreck happening nearby.
Zoey stood clutching her belongings, cheeks blazing.
She muttered to herself, “I will never live this down.”
With that, she made a brisk exit, feet squeaking like a cartoon character on a banana peel.
Halfway down the hall, she whispered, “Why am I like this?”
No answer but her own echo.
She tugged her bag strap higher, pulse still racing, cheeks still pink.
“If you don’t try,” she told herself bitterly, “you’ll never know.”
That didn’t help.
But no matter how badly that went, at least she had one thing:
An unforgettable story to laugh about—someday.
But not today.
Today, Zoey had officially set the bar for Most Embarrassing Social Interaction in Recorded History.
…
Zoey crashed into her seat just as the professor called for essays. She tossed her paper on the pile, hands still shaking with secondhand embarrassment. She half-heard the lecture beginning—something about musical motifs or existential motifs, it all blurred together. All her brain could process were shame, adrenaline, and an urgent need to vent.
She yanked out her phone, dialed the sound to silent, and opened her texts with Mira.
Zoey stared at her phone in disbelief, typing a few more messages before realizing they weren't going through. She looked around the classroom, suddenly aware that she was truly alone with her thoughts and the professor's droning voice about... something.
She sighed and slumped back in her chair. Maybe this was exactly what she needed—forced silence to actually process the morning instead of just talking about it in endless circles.
Or maybe she'd just die of boredom. Either way, at least Mira would unmute her eventually.
Probably.