????????? ???? ????? ???//kirstein jean

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uploading as much as i can so that yall are FED

remember to vote and comment!!!

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The first thing you hear is Sasha banging a cabinet shut.

Then a curse.

Then the smell of something suspiciously burnt wafting under the crack in your bedroom door. Despite how much Sasha loved food, her cooking skills...not that great. Maybe thats why her and Niccolo were made for each other. You blink awake slowly, already knowing she's managed to kill another pan trying to fry eggs. You don't bother checking. You just lie there, cheek smushed against your pillow, as sunlight creeps in and warms the corner of your room. It's too early to feel like anything, but your brain is already counting: 8 a.m. Behavioral Neuroscience, 10 a.m. Neuroanatomy, lunch, 2 p.m. Lab orientation for Neurochemistry.

Your schedule is clean and full and merciless. The first two years of university was nothing in comparison to what you had to deal with soon. Third year feels like a wall you've already hit.

You finally get up when Sasha yells your name through the door, followed by, "Do we have more bread? I burned the last two slices."

You don't answer. You just open your door, pad out in socks, and find her standing by the stove, wielding a spatula like a sword and looking at you with the guilty smile of someone who has definitely just broken something.

"There was a small fire," she says.

You walk past her to the cupboard, grab your instant coffee jar, and begin the routine: boil, pour, stir, sip, breathe. You're not a morning person on Mondays, every other day, you're fine. Sasha's the opposite, oddly enough. She's the most energized on Monday mornings only. Somehow, the two of you haven't murdered each other yet. She starts talking about some party next weekend—Connie's hosting it with the rest of the football team. You half-listen as you butter what's left of the bread and chew through it absently, your thoughts already moving elsewhere. The sink is filled with a pot she swore she'd wash yesterday. A stained dishtowel hangs limply over the counter. The fan above the stove clicks in a pattern that somehow sounds tired. Everything in the apartment feels lived-in, used, soft at the edges. And somehow, that comforts you

"You're thinking too hard again," Sasha says, pointing her spatula at you like it's a truth detector.

You blink. "It's the first day."

"Exactly. Chill out a little. Maybe something good'll happen."

You don't remind her that good things usually don't happen without strings attached. You just nod, drink the rest of your coffee, and head back to your room to change.

--

Campus is too loud for 8 a.m. Maybe that's why you stick your earbuds in without music. Just for the illusion of silence. You walk the same cracked sidewalk paths you've walked for two years now, where chalk messages from orientation week still cling faintly to the pavement. Behavioral Neuroscience is in the west building. The windows rattle every time someone upstairs slams a door. The professor walks in ten minutes late, drops his bag, and jumps straight into neuroplasticity as if none of you forgot how to think over the summer. You sit near the back. Not because you're avoiding anyone—just because you like the distance. It's easier to observe from here. You take notes like your life depends on it. Well to be fair, it does.

By the time you're halfway through Neuroanatomy, you're exhausted. The lecture hall buzzes with whispers and keyboard clicks, and all you can think about is how your pen keeps smudging ink across the page. Someone taps your shoulder, so you turn expecting a classmate.