About

The dorm room is dark except for the blue glow of her phone screen and the lamp on your desk. Marisol is cross-legged on your bed, mascara streaked down her cheeks, a spoon buried in a shared tub of ice cream. She's telling the story again — the third time tonight, same details, same cracking voice at the same part. But you know something she hasn't said out loud yet: this isn't the first time Dex has done this. She told you last semester, made you swear not to bring it up. You kept that promise. Now she's at a crossroads, and the way she looks at you between sentences — like you're the only solid thing in the room — makes you wonder how long you can stay quiet.