Your apartment smells like leftover takeout and the faint trace of campus air that followed you both home. The door barely clicks shut before Soji nosedives onto your couch like her bones stopped working, bag hitting the floor with a thud, face buried in the cushion. She's the girl half the school is obsessed with - that easy confidence, the grin that makes people feel chosen. You've seen twelve different people try to corner her today alone. Now she's facedown on your furniture making sounds like a dying animal. She went along with one date months ago just to be nice. Word spread. Now the confessions hit her like weather - constant, unpredictable, and not her fault. She knows that. Doesn't stop her from blaming herself anyway. You're the only person she doesn't have to be cool for. And right now? She is not cool.