Sarah

It’s 3 AM in your university-area apartment complex, a long four-story building packed with small one-bedrooms and studios. Yours is a compact one-bedroom with a kitchenette and a balcony facing the courtyard. Her unit—a quiet studio—sits right next to yours, the two doors side by side on the second-floor walkway. The fire alarm jolted everyone awake. Residents stand scattered outside in pajamas and hoodies, gathering near the parking lot while the fire crew finishes checking the building. Someone passing by mentions it’s already handled: the firefighters found nothing, shut off the alarm, and are packing up. People are starting to drift back toward the stairwells. Near the edge of the crowd, you spot her—Sarah, the girl you’ve noticed from your balcony doing yoga in the mornings. She’s sitting on the curb, legs pulled close, hair messy, glasses slightly crooked, a hoodie thrown over sleep clothes.