Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing away like mad. People have been begging you to complete the latest chapter of your fan fiction. Between writing applications for medical school and finishing up your junior year of college, you've barely had time to eat or sleep, and the fact that you had to choose between the two made you want to tear your hair out. You smile wryly as you jot down another sentence. Clearly you're choosing to do neither as you're sitting in the small campus café past a decent hour without having ordered anything.
Engrossed in your story, you violently start as the old courtyard clock outside mournfully strikes two. Looking up from your laptop, you stare at the deserted café, dimly lit by fluorescent lights. The emptiness doesn't bother you. You've sat in this spot many times, ever since you were a freshman, either studying for classes, taking practice MCATs, or writing stories. All the student workers know you and you know all of them. Your favorite is the manager, a senior named Victoria. She's an international student from China who seemed hell bent on mothering you. The first time she watched you pore over a problem set for sixteen continuous hours, she slammed your laptop shut, cooked you a huge meal, and frog marched you back to your dorm with instructions to rest your eyes. In hindsight, you supposed she had done you a favor, but at that moment, you had been itching to take off her head with a tornado kick for disturbing you.
You shake your head and smile slightly at that memory. Victoria. She was probably one of your first friends on campus. But friend seemed like the wrong word—maybe older sister. Friends wouldn't insist on you giving you a haircut because you looked like a mushroom. Or lecture you about taking more vitamins. Or leave out an urn full of steaming coffee before closing the café for the night, with dire warnings taped to the side about the effects of caffeine on sleep. You glance over at the silver pot covered with sticky notes and grin, thankful for Victoria's thoughtfulness.
Yawning, you check the time—a quarter past two. Technically, you aren't supposed to be in here past closing. But knowing Victoria had its perks. She didn't really care if you stayed late, probably because of that time you had that meltdown when the library kicked you out before you had finished your twenty-four hour take home midterm. Victoria had looked genuinely frightened when she found you sitting outside the library doors frantically scribbling away and mumbling to yourself as your timer counted down to zero. After that, she gave you the keys to the café, a most agreeable arrangement.
Should you complete the chapter? You hum absentmindedly, fingers tapping away on the desk. It's late and you're tired. You've gotten more sleep since finishing the MCAT and your personal statement, but there's still quite a lot of work left. Finals are coming up and while you know you're in good shape, additional reviewing wouldn't hurt. But readers have been commenting on your fan fiction page and you haven't updated in a while. You should try to wrap things up, you decide. You love your readers and they deserve more. Looking over what you've written so far, you try to focus. Your characters are in the middle of a fight, with one of them screaming terrible, terrible things at the other. You type out a few more words, but feel unsure about how to end her rant. Maybe coffee would help.
Trying not to imagine what Victoria would say if she saw you chugging black coffee at two in the morning, you furtively fill a cup and turn back towards your booth. Something odd gleams in the silver pot's reflective surface, catching your eye. You swiftly glance up. There's someone outside the café, leaning unsteadily against the glass wall.
Weird, but not too weird. It's a Saturday night and tons of parties are going on at this time. Whoever that person is probably was just too drunk and needed a place to sit for a while before raging again. You dispassionately return to your seat, setting down the brimming cup of coffee carefully. Back to work. You place your fingers on the keyboard in anticipation for the torrent of words to come.
A loud sob shatters the silence.
Where did that come from? You push yourself up from the table and look towards the figure now slouched on the ground. More sniffs follow, the person's entire frame shaking. Concerned, you hurry forward, but check yourself. Maybe they don't want your help. Maybe they think they're alone and just want to cry. You've definitely had those moments before.
Hesitating now, you wait and watch. The person looks like a slim girl, if her black hair cascading over her thin shoulders is anything to judge by. She has her face buried in her arms around her drawn legs, loud heart wrenching sobs wracking her frame. You can hardly bear it. You wait for maybe ten seconds more before moving again. Crying is just too hard to ignore.
Opening the door quietly, you step out, making sure to turn the deadbolt so that the door won't close completely. The girl doesn't seem to hear you. Tiredly, you walk over and sit down next to her, tentatively patting her shoulder. She quickly looks up, the moonlight catching her tear stained face. You involuntarily gasp.
Krystal.
Krystal Jung is one of the most popular girls in the school. And not like the clichéd high school Mean Girls type of popular. She is in the class of people who always have hundreds of likes on every picture they post on any social media platform, perfect Instagram feeds, invitations to all the hottest parties literally around the world, casual side modeling contracts, semi-celebrity friends, private islands, you name it. She's intelligent, charming, and beautiful to boot. Absolutely nothing like you.
And for that reason, you don't know what to say. Normally, you're decent at comforting others. You're good with words and you know that most people want listeners instead of constant advice givers when they're sad. Maybe that's what Krystal needs at this time. So you sit silently and wait.
Krystal stares at you for a moment. You guess she's surprised that you'd sit by her instead of secretly Snapchatting her and leaving, evidence that she's not perfect. After a moment, she looks down at her arms and frowns. At least she's stopped sniffling.
"What are you doing?" she asks faintly, her voice quite steady even though tears track their way down her face.
You consider this question for a moment, not wanting to screw up possibly your only interaction with a modern day princess.
"Trying to think of what to do," you truthfully reply.
She utters a short laugh and hiccups.
"Oops, hic, fair enough," she says.
You can't help but smile slightly. Shifting your weight to your left, you reach into your right back pocket and pull out a red bandana and hand it to her. She holds it uncertainty.
"Don't worry, it's clean. I thought maybe you'd like to wipe your face," you murmur.
She's still holding the bandana in her hand, brow furrowed in thought. You feel sweat gathering on your forehead for some unknown reason.
"You uh don't have to use it if you don't want to. I mean I just thought—."
"No no, thank you."
She carefully dabs at her eyes. You notice that she has on rather heavy eye makeup. She probably did just come from a party.
"It smells … nice," she whispers, pressing the cloth to her nose.
"Oh, uh, thank you," you stammer and involuntarily blush. Seriously, what's wrong with you?
"No, thank you. Sorry, I think I got some makeup on it. I can wash it and give it back tomorrow or something," she states matter of factly, holding the bandana to the light.
You see faint smears of black eyeliner on your bandana and inwardly sigh. Krystal must have seen your disappointed face because she pockets the bandana and in one fluid movement, pushes herself up.
"I'll –hic- wash it now," she slurs, swaying slightly.
You stand up too, concerned. She looks like she can barely open her eyes, let alone operate a washing machine. At least she stopped crying. She turns on her heel and starts walking to the restrooms, staggering against the café wall. You hurriedly follow her and as you draw level, she collapses against you, hands scrabbling against your side.
Shit.
You barely manage to catch her before she hits the ground, and try pulling her limp body up. She sags against you despite your best efforts. You're taller than her so you bend down, wrapping your arms around her waist and lifting her so she can find her feet.
"Krystal? Krystal! Wake up!" you command, your voice panicky.
"Hm?" she mutters against your neck.
So she hasn't passed out, which is a relief.
"Stand, please," you order.
"But I don't wanna."
She pulls back from you slightly, and pouts. Well, it seems like the sad drunk stage has passed. Her vodka laden breath fans across your face and you wrinkle your nose in mild disgust. Krystal's eyes crinkle as she giggles.
"Haha do that again Amber! You look cute!"
You laugh despite yourself. And freeze. How in the world does she know your name?
"Amberrrrrr you smell good too! Do you use –hic- cologne?" Krystal asks, poking your shoulder.
You ignore her question and try to think. She buries her face in the side of your neck. You yelp—it's ticklish. She pulls away slightly and you seize this chance to create some distance between you two but she stubbornly locks her arms around your neck and presses herself into you. Giving up, you try to figure out what to do.
The absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. You're literally holding the princess of the school. What would someone think if they saw you two? You'd get destroyed by the millions of guys and girls salivating over her. Krystal notices your frozen form and nudges you.
"What?" she slurs.
Regardless, you can't leave her alone. Well, maybe you can but you don't want to. And that in and of itself is a scary feeling, of wanting to help someone so out of your league, of your friend group, of your meager life. You push those thoughts away. Plenty of time to think later.
"Do you need to throw up?" you ask.
"No. I'm a –hic- heavyweight."
That makes you laugh again, grudgingly. Her? A heavyweight? She probably wouldn't tip the scale past one hundred fifteen pounds, soaking wet. But then again, people are full of surprises.
"What's so funny?" she mutters, her breath hot against your ear.
"Nothing, nothing. Just the thought of you doing a keg stand," you choke out.
You make another attempt at disentangling yourself from her but she clings to you so you give up again. Glancing around the courtyard and taking a look at the time—it's three already—allows you to decide. The best thing would probably be to feed her some carbs and water before putting her to bed. Should you ask her to call a friend for help? Probably not—they'd all be partying.
"Okay, Krystal I'm going to give you some bread and take you back to your dorm. Where do you live?"
"North Quad."
Of course. The North Quad is reserved for senior student body officers, club leaders, and the rich. It has its own dining hall, gym, lounges, library, and all the living spaces are individual suites complete with king sized beds, TVs, air conditioning, living rooms, kitchenettes, and restrooms. The rest of the plebeians lived crammed into tiny airless doubles with communal restrooms, and you're no exception.
Well, you'd get a glimpse of the high life tonight.
You half drag Krystal into the café to collect your belongings. Dumping her unceremoniously in a booth, you quickly stuff your laptop into your backpack. The fan fiction can wait until tomorrow and besides you weren't really into writing more anyways. You didn't know if Krystal had food in her room so you pad over to the cupboards along the wall and using Victoria's master key, open one and pull out a loaf of bread and some cheese. The theft makes you feel guilty so you run over to the cash register and deposit some money. Victoria'll find it later. Placing the food in your backpack, you close it and sling it over your back before walking over to Krystal. She's humming quietly to herself and watching you with glassy eyes.
"Ready?" you whisper.
For some reason, bringing Krystal into the café feels like an invasion of Victoria's trust, but you shake off that feeling. Krystal nods and stands, steadier than before. She follows you out of the doors and absentmindedly fiddles with her hair as you turn off the lights and lock the door.
"I'm tired. I –hic- don't wanna walk," Krystal complains as you set off towards the North Quad.
You look back at her. She really does look exhausted, head bowed and shoulders sagging.
"Do you want me to carry you?" you joke.
"Yes please," Krystal says seriously.
Well, you walked right into that one. If you didn't have a backpack, at least you could have given her a piggy back ride, but that would also require her holding on, which she didn't seem capable of doing. You take in her small frame. She didn't look that heavy. You could probably carry her. But what if someone sees you carrying Krystal Jung of all people? You hate rumors.
"Are you going to or not?" Krystal demanded.
Wow. She's pretty sassy for a drunk person. For some reason, it seemed endearing. You fight another grin and push aside your worries. With an easy motion, you sweep her off her feet and pick her up.
"Yay! Thank youuuu," she laughs, securely wrapping her arms around your neck.
"No problem. I like being a servant," you reply, feeling strangely protective.
She's warm in your arms. You hold her gently, hands balled out of respect. She leans her head against yours, her hair brushing your cheek. You stiffen a little at the contact but relax after a moment. She smells nice too. You start walking, making the long trek to the North Quad.
"Do you want to know why I was crying?" Krystal suddenly asks, trying to enunciate each syllable, as you start walking.
"Sure if you want to share," you answer, your interest piqued.
"My ex called me," she said simply.
For some reason, the implication that she was crying over some boy and therefore loved him made your heart ache. What was wrong with you? Why were you even thinking about those things? Did you truly believe that you had even a remote chance with her? The heart is foolish.
"And?" you mutter.
"I don't know. He said he wanted to get back together but I didn't want to so he got mad."
Just like that, your heart lifted, ballooning in your chest and making you want to sing. She didn't want him. This manufactured happiness at a stranger's loss probably wasn't too generous of you, but you couldn't help your feelings.
"Why didn't you want to get back together?" you ask, fighting to keep your voice steady.
She fell silent for a moment, gazing around at the academic buildings. You take this time to observe her profile, sharply highlighted by the lonely lamps lining the path. She has a beautiful nose, you decide. But the silence grew heavy.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to ask anything out of line. If you don't want to answer that's cool," you hastily say.
"No, I just didn't really know how to—it's a really long story," she replied slowly.
"I've got time."
"Really?"
"Yup."
Your answer made her smile again, and your heart danced wildly. How could someone change you so completely within a couple of minutes?