Chapter Text
A lone figure stood in front of a beautiful, towering building. Dread curled tightly in his stomach, heavy and insistent.
His new college.
It really was beautiful. The Victorian-style architecture rose proudly against the sky, all sharp angles and elegant curves, with multiple towers and narrow balconies that looked like they belonged in another century. A copper-tiled roof caught the light, dulled by age but still warm in color. Massive oak trees surrounded the campus, their branches stretching wide as if to shelter it. The few orange and yellow leaves clinging stubbornly to the limbs swayed softly in the wind, fluttering down now and then to crunch beneath passing feet.
He felt a familiar mix of excitement and dread settle over him. Excitement at the prospect of being a couple thousand miles away from home—far from expectations, routines, and people who thought they knew him. Dread at what was to come. New places, new faces, new rules. He had never been good with the unknown, and college was nothing but unknowns stacked on top of each other.
Wemmbu took a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp autumn air. It was cool and clean, sharp enough to wake him up. Beneath it lingered another scent—warm, savory, unmistakable. Tacos. The delicious smell wafted over from a food stand somewhere nearby, teasing him and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in far too long.
“Let’s do this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, and finally started walking.
As he made his way toward his dorm, his suitcase rolling softly behind him, his thoughts drifted to the goals he’d set for himself this semester. Simple ones. Reasonable ones. At least, in theory.
1. Don’t stand out.
A laugh almost escaped him at that. Hard thing to do, given his bright purple, obscenely long hair that practically screamed for attention. He tugged absently at a strand, already imagining the looks he’d get.
2, Get grades good enough so that his parents wouldn’t bother calling.
More doable than the first one. Studying was familiar. Predictable. Safe.
3. Don’t get too close to people.
That one sat heavier than the rest. He didn’t elaborate on it, not even to himself. He just tightened his grip on the suitcase handle and kept walking, boots crunching softly against the path as the college loomed closer—beautiful, intimidating, and full of possibilities he wasn’t sure he was ready for.
His finger gripped the suitcase handle tighter as he opened the door to his dorm building. The old door creaked and groaned as it unlocked, a sound that echoed like a warning through the empty hallway. The scent of polished wood and faint mildew hit him immediately. He wrinkled his nose but forced himself forward.
He stepped into the hallway. The door swung shut behind him with another long creak, and his boots echoed on the stone floor as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Each step made him flinch slightly—the building sounded alive, almost like it was complaining about the weight of newcomers.
The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by narrow windows that let in streaks of late afternoon sun. Wemmbu’s reflection caught briefly in a dusty pane. He looked… tired, but determined. Good start, he thought.
He made his way down the hall, listening to the faint hum of heating pipes and the distant chatter of students moving in. Some doors were wide open, furniture spilling out, and he caught glimpses of backpacks, posters, and half-unpacked boxes. One student leaned lazily in a doorway, scrolling on their phone, giving him a distracted nod. Wemmbu nodded back. Social interaction achieved—sort of.
Finally, he reached his dorm door. A clinking sound accompanied the lock as he turned the key, and the old door swung open. The room was empty. His roommate wasn’t here yet. The air smelled old and dusty, mixed with a faint hint of floor polish and the distant scent of the trees outside.
The dorm was divided into two identical sides. Each had a single bed, a desk, and a closet made from the same thin, bland wood. The walls were bare, the ceiling high and slightly echoey. The room felt like a blank canvas waiting for someone—him—to make it alive.
This really needs decorating, he thought. Good thing I have time before the semester starts. And hopefully before my roommate arrives. He imagined a splash of color, maybe some posters, a few trinkets, a small purple lamp. Anything to make it feel like his.
He set his suitcase down and decided to start transporting his stuff from his car to his dorm. The first trip wasn’t so bad. The second one made his shoulders ache. By the third, he was already questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.
It took over an hour of sweat, grunting, and careful balancing, but he managed to get everything out of the trunk of his purple Rolls-Royce. What could he say? He really liked purple. The car gleamed faintly in the fading light of the afternoon, reflecting streaks of orange and pink from the sky. For a brief moment, as he shut the trunk and wiped his brow, he felt a tiny spark of pride. At least he had good taste.
Back in the dorm, he finally got to the part he’d been looking forward to. He reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a sheer black fabric, climbing onto a chair to hang it across the ceiling. Tiny fairy lights were woven through it, and once he plugged them in, a soft glow spread across the room, hiding the cracks and stains time had carved into the ceiling. The harsh overhead lighting suddenly felt unnecessary.
He added black curtains next, the thick fabric blocking out the last of the daylight and giving the room an almost cocoon-like feel. One by one, posters went up—bands he loved, abstract art, half-forgotten movies that had meant everything to him at one point. Trinkets from his travels found their way onto shelves and the desk: small souvenirs, odd little objects with stories attached to them, each one grounding him just a bit more. A few paintings followed, carefully spaced, their colors breaking up the monotony of the plain walls.
The room was already looking much better. More like his.
He tossed dark purple bed sheets onto the mattress, smoothing them out before piling on decorative pillows and layering multiple blankets on top. It looked inviting—soft, warm, and unapologetically dramatic. A rug came next, placed carefully so it softened the cold floor beneath his feet.
Next to the rug, he leaned his violin case and bass case against the wall, familiar and comforting in their presence. Nearby, he set up a tall mirror that doubled as jewelry storage, already glittering faintly with rings and chains that caught the fairy lights when he moved.
His clothes rustled softly as he hung them in the closet, organizing them more out of habit than necessity. Shirts, jackets, and scarves lined up neatly, their colors ranging from deep purples to blacks and muted tones.
He dragged a small wooden shelf out of one of the boxes and positioned it against the wall near his desk. The shelf was nothing special, but it would do. One by one, he began stacking his books onto it, the familiar weight of them grounding him.
Textbooks went on the lower shelves first—thick, heavy, and practical. Not fun to look at, but necessary. Above those, he placed his novels, arranging them by size at first before stopping and rearranging them by color instead. It looked better that way. A little chaotic, but intentional.
He paused occasionally, fingers lingering on worn spines, memories surfacing with each title. Some books had followed him for years, dog-eared and annotated, while others were still pristine, waiting for the right moment to be opened. A few he placed facing outward, covers on display like small pieces of art.
When he was finished, he stepped back and adjusted the shelf slightly until it sat just right. The books gave the room weight—history, personality, proof that he belonged here just as much as anyone else.
Finally, he added a few more lights—small lamps and soft LED strips tucked into corners and behind furniture. When he turned them on, the room was bathed in a warm, gentle glow. Cozy. Safe.
He stepped back, hands on his hips, and took it all in. The dorm no longer felt empty or temporary. It felt lived in. It felt like a space where he could breathe.
For the first time since arriving on campus, Wemmbu smiled.
I really need to get food. I don’t even remember when I last ate.
He approached his suitcase and opened it. Everything was still neatly folded, the kind of neat that made him almost proud of himself. Probably best to keep it that way—he’d only get a new closet tomorrow, and besides, unpacking was more of a luxury than a necessity right now. He carefully pulled out some fresh clothes: basic sweatpants and a t-shirt. Nothing fancy. He could barely be bothered to make an effort. After all, he was just going to get food.
He swung the suitcase closed. The campus was bathed in the soft golden light of late afternoon, the shadows of tall oak trees stretching across the cobblestone paths.Very few Students wandered around, some with backpacks slung low, others laughing in small groups. The air smelled faintly of autumn leaves and, more importantly, of sizzling meat.
He remembered the tacos. That food truck from earlier. He followed the scent, which grew stronger with every step, winding through the campus streets like a savory breadcrumb trail.
If these tacos are good, I might just become a regular.
The food truck was parked right on the edge of campus, bright red and cheerful, with a small line of People already waiting. Wemmbu stepped up, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Two beef tacos, please,” he said, trying not to sound too eager.
The vendor nodded, slipping the warm tortillas onto a small paper plate. Wemmbu paid and stepped aside, tucking a few bills into his pocket. The aroma hit him again, stronger now—smoky, spicy, utterly irresistible. He couldn’t wait.
He took his first bite while walking back along the sidewalk. The meat was perfectly tender, bursting with flavor, the cumin and chili warming his mouth like a hug from the inside. The tortilla crunched just enough to remind him it was handmade. He let out a small moan, trying to be discreet but failing entirely.
“Oh…oh yeah,” he muttered, eyes closing briefly in bliss. “I’m definitely becoming a regular here.”
He took the second bite more carefully, chewing slowly this time, savoring the flavor. The students passing by barely registered him, too caught up in their own conversations. A dog ran past on a leash, wagging its tail and making him smile. Somewhere behind him, a guitar strummed softly, carried by the breeze from a busking student.
Wemmbu leaned against a low stone wall, finishing the last bite, and let the flavors linger. For once, he didn’t think about the looming presence of his parents in his mind. He only thought about how good it felt to be alive and hungry and satisfied.
As he tossed the empty paper plate into a nearby bin, he wiped his hands on his pants and grinned. Maybe college wouldn’t be so bad after all.