The First to Fall ⚢

𝐨𝐧𝐞 • 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐚

"Aspen Greenwood? Seriously?" I ask the desk worker again as if he'd be able to give me a new answer. Fifth time's a charm, right?

"Listen," he pushes through nearly gritted teeth. "I understand you want a different roommate, but roommate assignments were finalized three days ago and are non-negotiable. Unless your current roommate has made you feel unsafe or in danger in any way, you won't be able to make any changes until next semester."

Although sharing a room with Aspen Greenwood is undoubtedly the last thing I want, there's nothing she has ever done to truly make me feel in danger. Not physically, at least. Academically? Now that's a different story.

"I just," I try one more time. "I really don't feel comfortable sharing a space with her."

The man at the desk just sighs with no sign of any enthusiasm toward helping a student with an issue, despite his job description. "The only thing I can do for you is give you this transfer request form to fill out. Someone will review your case and assign you or your roommate to new rooms, but the process won't start taking place until the start of September, due to housing policies. And at that point, it'll take an additional couple of weeks for everything to be observed and for changes to be made."

"So, you're saying I won't be able to get away from her for at least a month?"

He shrugs slightly. "Maybe sooner if everything goes smoothly. Are you still interested in filling out the form?"

Although waiting an entire month to finally be rid of Aspen completely seems like torture, it sounds like a much better deal than being stuck with her for the entire semester. So, with a long, exaggerated sigh of irritation, I begin filling out the stupid request form.

"Here," I say with a flat voice, handing the paper back as soon as I finish it. Ryan, which I quickly learn is the name of the man at the front desk after looking at his name tag, skims over the document and tells me he'll be right back before he steps into the office behind the counter. In his absence, the front doors of the lobby push open, and because I have incredible luck—full sarcasm intended—in waltzes a carefree, clearly overdressed Aspen Greenwood.

Her signature blonde box braids are neatly groomed like always, though instead of the short curls that usually finished off her braids, light, summer-colored beads take their place this time around. The beads are probably her idea of making a change for college—trying to "start fresh" in a way despite her objectively unhealthy control problems. After all, if tryhard could be personified, it would look just like her. And maybe me too—just a bit.

"Cara," Aspen's voice greets me coldly, completely butchering my name after all these years and almost stepping on my moving bags as she moves to meet me.

"You know it's pronounced car-uh," I glare at her, "not care-uh."

She just shrugs. "Tomato, tomato."