Corridor tensions have eased dramatically since last Friday afternoon, when Aveline uncharacteristically sprang to my defence against Paul. Aveline and I could almost be classed as acquaintances now. We may have even gone as far as smiling at each other in communal spaces. I wouldn't say she's heading for a 'Best Friend Forever' award just yet and I have no plans to invite her over to plait my hair or call her 'Avi', but I might include her on this year's Christmas card list if she continues in this positive vein.

Unfortunately, even Aveline cannot save me from the dreaded difficulties of pharmacokinetics, and as exams are only two months away, I've reluctantly decided to devote this early March afternoon to committing some formulae to memory. Armed with text-books, supervision notes and a large mug of tea, I imprison myself at my desk, ready to immerse myself in the mysterious world of binding coefficients and dissociation constants.

I'm twenty minutes and three-quarters of the tea-mug into my work when an excited shout breaks my concentration:

"Sunny! Hey, Sunny! Look!"

Annoyed at the sudden distraction, I glare up from my desk as Gabriela comes barrelling into my room without bothering to knock. In her hand is a piece of paper which she's brandishing vigorously. She shoves aside a few garments which are loitering around on my bed and makes herself comfortable.

"Help yourself to a seat, why don't you?" I mutter, slightly frustrated as I was just on the brink of deciphering a particularly complex paragraph in my notes and now I'll have to read the entire fucking page again to make sense of it. "What is it?"

"Room ballot results," she says breathlessly. "We've managed to secure rooms in that house we wanted on Chesterton Road!"

"Oh fab!" I exclaim, all thoughts of clearance rates and terminal phases immediately flying out of my head at this happy news. "Wait - I haven't checked my post yet. What if you've been allocated a room and I haven't?"

"It's got your name listed here," she sighs happily. "There's six of us altogether. Me and you, Toni from N staircase, Elijah, Connor and someone called Grace Brightman. Oh, it's going to be so much fun living away from college for a year!"

"The house is only a mile from St John's," I laugh, cheered as always by Gabriela's infectious mood. "Although, just imagine; we'll have to make an actual effort to go out for drinks instead of relying on our current two-minute journey to the college bar to get sloshed in our pyjamas."

"True," says Gabriela thoughtfully. "And I won't see Marcus as frequently, which is also a bit of a downside."

"He'll be pretty busy next year. Won't he be finishing up his PhD and writing his thesis?"

"Yes, although he'll have more spare time because he won't be holed up in the lab trying to get his experiments to work," replies Gabriela.

"Well that's excellent - he'll be spending it with you then, won't he? Honestly, Gabi, you worry unnecessarily."

"But he might take on more college bar work instead, because that's what he's hinting at. And what if he ends up meeting someone else?"

"Then you kick him in the balls," I tell her decisively. "Or I'll kick him in the balls on your behalf. He wouldn't dare mess you around."

As soon as I've said those words, I panic a little inside. I cannot personally guarantee that Marcus won't do the dirty on Gabriela. He seems nice enough, but that's what I thought about Jonty - and look where that got me.

I should explain why we're opting to live outside of college next year. Gabriela and I had decided at the beginning of Michaelmas term that St John's was beginning to feel far too claustrophobic and we really wanted to experience the novelty of living elsewhere. The student house we'll be staying in is a bit further away from University than college is, but as my third year is going to be primarily literature-based and involves comparatively few lectures, I doubt the extra distance will bother me.

"Did Paul find you the other day? I forgot to ask."

I freeze, immediately on my guard as I process Gabriela's words. "Gabi? What exactly do you mean?"

"Paul. I bumped into him a couple of days ago and he said he wanted to talk to you. Must admit, I was kind of surprised he didn't know where your room was."

"You told him where I live? For fuck's sake, Gabi!" I yell, slapping a palm to my forehead.

"Why?" Gabriela looks momentarily stunned, her dark eyebrows almost meeting her hairline. "What did I do?"

"Suppose it's not your fault really. I never got a chance to say, because you're always with Marcus and I barely see you any more, but Paul? I've been avoiding him for about a month! Successfully, I might add, until you cocked it up for me."

Gabriela yelps and ducks as I pick up a cushion and lob it at her.

"Well I didn't know, did I?"

"You do now! Seriously, Gabs, never ever ever give my room number to anyone again, even if you think they are the love of my life. The guy's a complete fruit-cake."

"I'm sorry, Sunny. I genuinely thought he was one of the good ones."

"So did I at first," I groan, softening my posture and tone under her remorseful gaze, "but even if he hadn't revealed his true crazy, there was just no spark between us at all. Big mistake to snog him once. Twice was fucking stupid!"

Gabriela jumps up and flings her arms around me in a tight squeeze. "Don't blame yourself, Sunny. We all do mad, inexplicable things like, err, snog people we don't really fancy. You'll forgive me?"

"Of course, silly," I reply, my voice muffled by Gabriela's hair. "Just don't tell him where we're living next year."

"Oh God no, I promise," she says earnestly. "What's the time, by the way?"

With difficulty, because I'm still being smothered, I extract my arm and check my wrist watch. "Five to three."

"Oh shit; I'm going to be late for my supervision!" Gabriela hurriedly kisses my cheek, then drops me like a hot brick and runs out of my room. "I'll see you later," she shouts from somewhere down the corridor.

Enveloped in happy thoughts of next year, I listen to the fading sound of her footsteps before forcing my attention back to the enigma of drug-receptor interactions.

Later, just as I'm finally getting to grips with partial agonists, the WhatsApp alert tone on my phone goes off, cutting through the silence and making me jump. Some days, I swear there's a hidden camera in my room which feeds back to some great control centre in the sky whose sole purpose is to cause as much disruption to my day as possible.

"What the fuck now?" I growl to my empty room before checking my messages and finding one from Saffron instructing us to meet up at The Dizzy Giraffe for drinks at six.

I love the way she tells me how I'm spending my evening. If I fail these exams, I'm forcing Saffron to re-sit them on my behalf.

Sighing, I check my watch. Nearly ten-to-five. Plenty of time to get ready, because it usually takes me less than ten minutes to throw on some clean jeans and run a brush through my hair, but I suppose I should eat something first. Which means that I'm unlikely to squeeze any further understanding out of these notes this evening. What a waste of a free weekday. Although it's Thursday, we didn't have any lectures or lab sessions scheduled because we've almost reached the end of this year's modular courses.

Which means exams aren't far away.

I really should be revising.

But if I refuse to go out on that basis, Judith and Saffron will only come around and physically drag me to the pub in my current outfit of sweatpants and ancient, holey, oversized T-shirt.

And Al might be there. And although I'm never that bothered about my appearance, I really really like Al - even if all we ever share is friendship - and I'd prefer this outfit not to hinder his opinion of me.

Did I admit that out loud?

Meh, nobody else heard.

Hang on; isn't talking to oneself the first sign of madness?

Just shut the fuck up Sunita.

Only if you shut the fuck up first.

Oh, stop it, brain.

"I'll get this round," I offer, purse in hand, as everyone jostles for seats around a large pine table in the darkest corner of The Dizzy Giraffe pub, where we've congregated. It's just past six, and the place is beginning to fill up for the evening. "Who wants what? Don't just say 'the usual'." At this, I look pointedly at Leonard, who is poised on the verge of saying exactly that. He opens and closes his mouth several times before settling on a toothy little-boy grin.

"But Sunny-shortcake, you know what I like," he says, batting his wispy blonde eyelashes and ignoring my bored expression.

"He'll have a pint of Brewdy Hen," says Saffron, glaring at Leonard and flicking his ear, causing him to squeak and pout, "and would you mind getting me a pint of Big Apple, please?"

"I'll have a pint of Hoppy Ever After, please," says Judith. "Would you like help carrying everything?"

"Nah, it's okay; I'll use a tray," I reply, waving her offer away. "Al? Ronnie? Yoshi?"

"Could you get me some spring water, please?"

"Jude's choice sounds interesting - I think I'll try a pint of that. Thanks, Sunny."

"I'll have a pint of lager if that's okay."

"Kronenberg or Carlsberg?"

"Hmm, K-berg, please."

"Okay, so that's two Hoppy Ever Afters, a Brewdy Hen, a Big Apple, some spring water and a pint of Kroney. Got it," I nod, repeating the list in my head as I walk through the busy pub towards the bar. There's a bit of an indistinct, layered queue, and as I wait patiently to be served, I notice a slightly older guy to my right who keeps glancing intermittently in my direction. The second he catches my eye, he breaks into a friendly smile.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Packed, isn't it?"

"You could say that."

We shuffle a little closer to the front, his elbow brushing against mine as a girl pushes past us with a trio of pints in her hands.

"Sorry," he murmurs politely. "Didn't mean to barge into you."

"It's fine," I reply. "Not your fault at all."

"Where are you from, by the way?" His voice has a pleasant, welcoming lilt to it, and I wonder if he's trying to guess my hometown based on my accent.

"Rotherham," I reply.

"Rotherham?" His eyebrows lift up in surprise. "Oh. I wouldn't have guessed that. I'd place your accent around Birmingham. What about before that?"

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. Before Rotherham? "Umm, well, we lived in Manchester for a couple of years when I was very young."

"Oh yeah, Manchester's a great city! Used to visit a friend in Didsbury from time to time." The tone of his voice becomes more insistent. "But where are you really from?"

The penny drops with a swift clatter as I realise what this bell-end is attempting to get at, and I decide to toy with him. "Well, I was born in Wythenshawe," I reply innocently.

"But before that? I mean, where are you really really from? Obviously, you aren't originally from Britain."

By now, his smile is so wide and fixed, it looks like he's wearing a death grimace. My inner jester begins to simmer with fury and I really want to shriek 'why the fuck not?' in his face, but I restrain myself with difficulty.

"Where am I really really from?" I say, in the sweetest voice I can muster. "Well, let me see. That'll be my Mum's uterus."

I gaze at him coolly from under raised eyebrows, watching ripples of confused ignorance furrow his brow. Turning away, I notice a minuscule gap appearing at the bar and I seize the opportunity to shimmy into it, protectively tucking myself away from the prying stranger and his obsession with my background.

Ten minutes later, after some perilous navigation of the pub, heavily-laden tray in hand, I arrive back at our table with the cargo surprisingly intact. I dump the tray on the table, sit down in a vacant seat next to Al, and begin to distribute the drinks. Judith, Yoshi and Veronica are wrapped up in a conversation, and Leonard is showing Saffron and Al something on his mobile phone.

Al gives me a curious glance as a pint of beer is deposited with a thump in front of him, some of the contents sloshing out of the container to land in a puddle on the table.

"Sorry," I mutter, mopping up the spillage with a spare cardboard coaster, and blotting it dry with another. "I'm so fucking clumsy sometimes."

"Thanks. You okay?"

"Yeah. Just a teensy bit pissed off, that's all."

"You don't say. What's up?"

"Oh nothing really."

"You seem pretty annoyed over nothing"

"You really wanna know?"

"Try me."

"Just some nosey prick at the bar," I blurt out in an annoyed rush.

"Oh?"

Al listens patiently as I regale the incident, and when I get to the part about my mother's womb, he breaks into a giggle, which trails off as he notices my stony expression. Licking his lips nervously, he stares at me in confusion. "Am I not supposed to find that funny? Err, so what did he mean?"

I sigh. I'm surprised and disappointed that he doesn't understand to be honest, and now I feel the need to spell it out. "Honestly, Al! Sometimes it's as though you're from a different Universe, the notice you take of everyday things! Basically, he wanted to know where my brownness was from."

"But isn't it apparent from your accent that you're British?" he replies, after a moment's pause, presumably to digest my acerbic comment.

"Well yes, but according to some people, I can't possibly be British because I'm not white."

"Wait - people actually think that? Why?"

"Because they're xenophobic racist arseholes? Honestly? I don't know why people think that Britishers must only be available in white."

"But that's absurd.

"I completely agree."

"Maybe he's the sort of person who asks everyone where they're really from?" Al shrugs dismissively.

I bristle. "Have you ever been asked where you're really from?"

"No," says Al slowly, looking uncomfortable as I face him with a scowl. "I wonder if any of my cousins have ever faced that question."

Why the fuck would anyone care to ask his cousins? "I guess if they are white British, then the chances are they haven't," I reply curtly. "It happens to me every now and again."

"Well, most of my relatives are white, but one of my Aunts is Black and another is of Chinese heritage. Four mixed race cousins in total," explains Al, taking a sip of his beer. "It's never occurred to me that other people might assume they are not British based purely on their appearance. This topic hasn't cropped up in conversation before, so I've never had to give it any consideration. Until now, obviously."

"What a luxury," I mutter, "to never have to think about race."

We are teetering on the edge of a precipice here. There are certain things I struggle to rationalise, and people arguing that there is no evidence of racism in the UK is one of them. I wait patiently for Al Potter to decide his own fate; stay or be pushed over the cliff.

He seems defensive for a moment and opens his mouth, presumably to justify something, then shuts it again. He takes a slow swill of beer and looks at me thoughtfully, a hint of uncertainty shadowing those molten eyes. I gaze back at him, pensive yet unwavering. As devastatingly beautiful as this boy is, I can't let him in until I know; I have principles and boundaries, after all. Jonty helped me realise that. At least that wankmuffin was good for something, I suppose.

Eventually, Al breaks the silence. "Yeah. I guess it is," he replies, his tapering fingers wiping away beads of condensation from the outside of his beer glass. His tone is apologetic and it fills me with a heady rush of sympathy and relief that he can empathise with my point of view. "A luxury, I mean. I'm sorry - I realise there's a world out there of which I'm completely ignorant."

"Well, living in a first world country, we're nearly all privileged in some way or another," I reply, diluting my own argument to spare Al's guilt. "Unpicking our biases is hard, especially when we don't think we have any. We can all do better."

"I don't like the thought of being biased."

"No-one does. Who likes admitting they are wrong or that they unwittingly benefit from societal injustices and oppression?"

"And I do benefit, don't I?" Al's breath catches in his throat as he berates himself unhappily. "Honestly, I should know better than most. My family even fought in a war against discrimination several decades ago, for fuck's sake."

I didn't take history as a subject at school, so I'm not sure which war he's referring to, but perhaps it was something that happened abroad, or a very niche fight that didn't affect many people.

"Enough about that," I reply hastily, noticing his troubled expression and deciding upon a change of subject. "What I really want to know is, have we upset you recently?"

"Me? Why would I be upset at something you've done?" Al snaps his head up and raises an eyebrow in astonishment.

"Well, you don't sit with us any more. Do we smell?"

"No?"

"So one of us is malodorous, then. Is it me?"

"No, of course not, you nutter." Al leans in close and takes an experimental sniff at my neck, making me flush and smile. "You smell…nice, of course." He withdraws his nose and blinks slowly.

"What is it, then?" I ask. "Why have you abandoned us?"

Al sighs. "I haven't. I'm just trying to be a good friend to everyone, that's all. I was friends with Orla first, and lately, I've hardly spent any time with her."

"Oh." There's not a lot I can say to his explanation without sounding like a selfish brat, because even though Al is our friend and we miss him in lectures, Orla must have felt pretty left out when he abandoned her for us. Maybe I should suggest that Orla sits with us too? I don't particularly like her and I'm fairly sure she shares the same opinion of me, but perhaps it's the right thing to do. I chew on my bottom lip, contemplating the idea.

Al's soothing voice breaks through my brief musing.

"Knut for your thoughts?"

"Sorry, a what for my thoughts?"

I look up at the strange turn of phrase to see Al watching me, an inscrutable expression gracing his delectable features.

"Um, a nut. For your thoughts. It's - err - a figure of speech. Don't tell me you've never heard of it? Where are you even from?"

I'm not sure whether to act shocked, offended or to burst into hysterical laughter. Coming from anyone else, that softly mocking comment would probably have me unleashing a torrent of abuse, but Al, with his adorably hesitant smile and unfathomably beautiful eyes, just has me feeling warm and pathetic inside. As much as I'm trying not to, I'm in real danger of completely losing my heart to him. Self-protectively, I retaliate in the only way I can in this moment.

"Are you taking the piss…tachio, Mr. Potter?"

He pauses for a couple of seconds before breaking into a dazzling smile. A peal of laughter escapes him.

"Haha! Nice bit of cashewal punning there."

"It's something I exshell at."

"Waaaall…nut wanting to boast, but so do I."

"Oh bollocks, I was going to use 'walnut' next, and I had something better lined up, too."

"That old chestnut. Yeah, right."