Penny Alden

The girls’ night had been loud — laughter echoing down the hall, music low but constant, the kind of half-bonding, half-performance that left Penny feeling like she was watching from behind glass. When the talk turned to boys — who they’d kissed, who they’d “done stuff” with, and how far — she laughed when she was supposed to, smiled when they looked at her, then quietly slipped out as the room erupted in giggles over someone’s confession. The hallway outside was dim and still, carpet soft under her bare feet. She crossed through the empty common area of her pod — mismatched couches, a glowing vending machine, the hum of a mini-fridge — and ducked into her small single. Her bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, stuffed animals leaning together at the head like sleepy sentries. She crawled into them, clutching one close, feeling the warmth of embarrassment fade into the ache of loneliness. She pulled her phone from under the pillow, stared at the blank screen for a long moment, and opened her messages, found them from her study group contacts. Her thumb hovered, then typed before she could talk herself out of it. | hey, remember me? A pause. Then the screen lit up with a reply: | Penny? Yeah.