Chapter Text
Marcy Park liked things to end where they belonged. The last box sat empty at her feet as she adjusted the neat stack of sheet music on her desk, nudging the corners until they aligned perfectly. Bach sat beneath Beethoven, theory workbooks beneath both, everything ordered not by aesthetics but by logic. It made sense to her this way. The room felt quieter once she finished, like it was holding its breath in approval.
Her dorm room was small, but thoughtfully arranged. The bed was made tight enough to bounce a quarter, the desk clean except for a lamp and a metronome, and beside the window stood her keyboard, already plugged in, a padded stool placed at precisely the right distance. Sunlight spilled across the keys in pale stripes.
It wasn’t home, exactly, but it was close enough to feel manageable.
She checked her schedule one more time, even though she already knew it by heart. Music Theory major. Full ride scholarship. The words still looked strange together, like they belonged to someone else. Not that it mattered much, her parents could have paid for the school twice over without noticing. But the scholarship meant something different to Marcy. It was proof. Not of talent alone, but of discipline, of correctness, of having done everything the way she was supposed to.
Marcy sat on the edge of the stool and pressed a single key, softly, just to hear the sound fill the room. It resonated cleanly, predictably. She exhaled. College was supposed to be a fresh start, a place where no one knew her as anything but a student with good posture and impeccable attendance. No spelling lists. No buzzers. No audience.
She closed the keyboard lid gently, stood, and smoothed the crease in her skirt. Orientation would start soon. New campus, new rules, new expectations. Marcy felt ready—prepared, even. Still, as she reached for her door, a small, inexplicable tightness settled in her chest, like she’d forgotten something important.
She paused, thinking hard. Then she shook her head, dismissed the feeling, and stepped out into the hallway—unaware that the thing she’d left behind wasn’t an object at all, but a person she hadn’t expected to find again.
—
Marcy found her orientation group without difficulty. She followed the laminated sign with her assigned color and number, checked it twice to be sure, and took a place near the edge of the cluster. She found that the more she got older the more she started to over think.
Marcy overthinks when talking to new people because she’s used to being careful. She listens closely, notices patterns, and wants to respond correctly, not impulsively. It isn’t anxiety so much as habit. She’s learned that observing first keeps her from making mistakes, and mistakes feel louder to her than silence.
The orientation leader was loud and enthusiastic in a way Marcy found faintly exhausting, but she listened carefully anyway as they covered campus safety, dining hall hours, and the importance of “finding your people.” Marcy nodded at the appropriate moments, committing facts to memory and quietly correcting a misquoted building name in her head.
They moved as a group across campus in slow, uneven stops, pausing for photo opportunities and half-jokes that didn’t quite land. Marcy walked with her hands folded around her folder, eyes drifting instead to the buildings themselves, the clean lines of the music hall, the practice rooms she could already imagine filling with sound, the library that promised silence and order. When the orientation leader launched into a long anecdote about school spirit, Marcy fell a few steps behind, absorbed in comparing the campus map to the real paths beneath her feet.
By the time she looked up, the group had turned a corner without her.
Marcy stopped. She considered her options carefully. She could hurry and catch up, or she could take a moment, reorient herself, and rejoin them at the next scheduled checkpoint. The schedule in her folder allowed for flexibility.
She chose the second option. It was more efficient. So, she started to wander.
She turned down a quieter hallway, scanning the wall placards to confirm where she was, when a voice cut through the air—clear, precise, and unmistakably corrective.
“That’s not accurate,” the voice said, tight with restrained frustration. “The orientation packet explicitly states—”
Marcy’s steps slowed. Her grip tightened on her folder. She knew that voice? She hadn’t heard it in years, but it landed in her chest with startling familiarity.
She looked up just as the speaker turned, and recognition settled into place with a quiet, undeniable certainty.
Logainne?
Lo and behold, there was none other than Miss Logainne Schwartzandgrubenierre.
The realization settled slowly, like a piece clicking into place. She looked the same, and yet entirely different from all those years ago—older, sharper around the edges, but steadier too. Like someone who had grown into herself instead of out of anything.
She wore a structured blazer over a pleated skirt, the outfit neat and deliberate, as though she’d dressed not to impress but to be taken seriously. Her hair was longer now, drawn back into a careful braid that fell straight down her back without a strand out of place. And of course, slung over one shoulder, was a canvas tote bag covered in nearly every Pride and liberal pin imaginable. They caught the light when she moved, small flashes of color against the otherwise restrained palette.
Logainne was mid-argument, posture rigid and hands gesturing with precise frustration. The poor tour guide she’d cornered looked exhausted, nodding along without truly listening. Eventually, they sighed, muttered something about “double-checking later,” and ushered the rest of the group away down the hall. The crowd followed quickly, grateful for the escape, leaving Logainne standing alone with her tote bag pressed against her side.
Marcy stayed where she was, her feet rooted to the floor.
Should she go over...?
Go say Hi
Would that be strange?
Probably.
Marcy had only known Logainne for a few hours, years ago, after they’d both been eliminated from the spelling bee and left lingering backstage with nothing to do but talk. But Marcy didn’t have many friends, and that brief conversation... Logainne’s easy confidence, the way she’d spoken to Marcy like she mattered had meant more than Marcy had ever said aloud. She had carried it with her, quietly, for years.
She doubted Logainne had done the same.
Logainne was brave. Loud. Friendly. The kind of person who left impressions everywhere she went. Marcy was none of those things.
She was still standing there, halfway hidden against the wall, when fate made the decision for her.
“M–Marcy?”
The sound of her name made Marcy’s stomach flip. Logainne was already walking toward her, expression uncertain but open.
“Standing frozen in the middle of the hallway,” Logainne added, one eyebrow lifting slightly, “kind of makes you noticeable.” she said, offering a sweet smile.
“Oh, yea sorry. I was just lost…” She quickly stammered out snapping back into reality.
Logainne huffed a small laugh, the tension she’d been carrying easing almost immediately. “It happens,” she said. “Orientation is poorly designed. Too much standing around, not enough clear instruction.” She hesitated, then glanced down the hallway where both of their groups had disappeared. “My group abandoned me.”
Marcy nodded. “Mine too.”
There was a brief pause, the kind that felt heavier than it should have. Logainne shifted her tote higher on her shoulder, then straightened, decision clearly made.
“Do you want to walk with me?” she asked. “I mean—just around campus. Until we figure out where we’re supposed to be next.”
Marcy’s first instinct was to overthink. Her second was to say yes before she could talk herself out of it.
“Okay,” she said. “I’d like that.”
They fell into step beside each other, not quite close enough to brush shoulders, but nearer than strangers.
For a few moments, they walked in silence, broken only by the sound of other students passing by and the distant echo of someone shouting directions.
“So,” Logainne said eventually, glancing over at her. “What’s your major?”
“Music theory,” Marcy replied. “I—um—I got a full ride.”
Logainne stopped walking for half a second. “That’s incredible,” she said, with unmistakable sincerity. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Marcy tucked her hands into her sleeves, warmth spreading in her chest. “You?”
“Political Science,” Logainne said. “Which, statistically speaking, was inevitable.”
That earned a small smile from Marcy.
They rounded a corner, the conversation settling into something easier. Classes, dorms, the campus layout. It was comfortable, in a careful, fragile way, like both of them were aware of how easily the moment could shatter if pushed too hard.
Then Logainne cleared her throat.
“Just so you know,” she said, eyes fixed ahead, “if I seem a little… off, it’s because I just broke up with my girlfriend. Recently.”
Marcy’s steps faltered, just slightly. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Logainne replied quickly. “Well. Not fine. But necessary. We weren’t… compatible anymore.” She exhaled. “I thought it was better to be honest.”
Marcy nodded, unsure what else to say, but grateful for the trust in the admission.
“You were probably too good for her,” she said softly, in attempt to make a joke.
Logainne glanced at her then, something thoughtful passing across her expression. “Thanks.”
They kept walking.
They ended up walking a little slower than they meant to, the conversation drifting from one small topic to the next with no real rush to get anywhere. Eventually the sidewalk thinned out and the late afternoon air started to bite just enough to make Logainne tug her sleeves down. She glanced ahead and spotted the café on the corner, its windows fogged up and glowing warmly inside.
“Do you wanna stop for a drink?” she asked, nodding toward it. “I could really use some caffeine.”
Marcy smiled, relieved by the suggestion. “Yeah. That actually sounds perfect.”
-
They found the café tucked just off the main quad, warm and crowded with first years clinging to cups like anchors. Logainne scanned the menu with intense focus, lips moving slightly as she read, before ordering something with far too many descriptors for Marcy to keep track of. Almond milk, extra shot, something seasonal.
Marcy asked for a simple tea. Chamomile, no sweetener.
Logainne glanced at her cup when it arrived. “That’s it?”
Marcy nodded. “It’s better for my voice,” she said. “I have singing classes on top of theory. Tea helps.”
“Oh,” Logainne said, clearly recalibrating. “That makes sense. Very responsible.” She paused, then added, “You sing?”
“A lot,” Marcy replied, though the corner of her mouth lifted. She wrapped both hands around the cup, letting the steam rise. The café noise faded into something distant and unimportant.
They took a small table by the window, knees nearly brushing. Conversation came easier here—less like catching up, more like continuing something that had never quite ended. They talked a lot more now, catching each other up with how their own lives have been since the Bee all those years ago. Somewhere between sips, Logainne leaned back slightly, studying Marcy with open curiosity.
“So,” she said, careful but direct, “can I ask you something?”
Marcy looked up. “Okay.”
“What’s your dating situation?” Logainne asked. “I already overshared about my ex, so it feels only fair.”
Marcy considered the question for a moment. “There hasn’t been much of one,” she said simply. “I focused on school. And music.”
Logainne nodded, like this fit perfectly into a pattern she’d already noticed. “That tracks.”
Marcy met her eyes, something warm settling between them. It didn’t feel awkward. It didn’t feel heavy. It just felt honest.
When they finished their drinks, neither of them reached for their bags right away. Logainne was the one to break the pause.
“There’s a start-of-the-year party tonight,” she said. “Technically optional. Loud. Probably inefficient.” She hesitated, then added, “Would you want to go together..?”
Marcy didn’t have to think long. “Yes,” she said. “I would.”
Logainne smiled. Small, real, a little surprised. They stood, gathering their things, stepping back out into the afternoon light side by side.
As they walked, Marcy realized something quietly, without analysis or doubt: they moved at the same pace. The conversation flowed. The silences didn’t ask for fixing.
They clicked. Easily, naturally. As if this was the most reasonable thing in the world.