2 unpacked chaos
By the time we make it back from the housing office, I've learned two things, and neither of them are helpful.
One, the system is "temporarily overwhelmed," which is a polite way of saying nobody has any idea what went wrong and they're not particularly motivated to figure it out quickly.
Two, I am, apparently, still assigned to room 312.
Which is a male dorm.
Which is not changing today.
The girl at the desk said it with the kind of tight smile that means she's already repeated it at least twenty times and doesn't care if I spiral in front of her as long as I don't do it loudly.
"It'll be resolved tomorrow," she promised, typing something into her computer without looking at me, like that sentence should magically fix the fact that I am currently carrying my entire life in two bags and have nowhere else to go.
Tomorrow.
Classes start tomorrow.
Of course they do.
Jackson didn't argue much, which I didn't expect, but I also noticed the way his jaw tightened just slightly when she said there were no available rooms for a temporary switch, like he wanted to push harder and decided not to for my sake, which is.
.. annoyingly considerate for someone I met an hour ago.
So now we're walking back down the hallway toward 312 again, side by side, and I can feel the exhaustion settling in behind my eyes, the kind that isn't from being physically tired but from thinking too much, too fast, for too long.
"This is actually insane," I say, pushing the door open again like it personally offended me.
"Yeah," he agrees easily, stepping in after me, like this is just mildly inconvenient instead of completely derailing my mental stability. "But at least it's only one night."
I drop my bag onto the bed again, exhaling slowly as I look around the room like maybe it'll rearrange itself into something that makes sense if I stare long enough.
"One night," I repeat, more to convince myself than anything else.
I can do one night.
I've done worse.
Probably.
I shake that thought off before it goes somewhere unhelpful and crouch down, unzipping my suitcase, because if I don't start organizing something, I'm going to start overthinking everything, and that's a dangerous path.
"Do you always handle mild disasters this calmly?" I ask, pulling out a folded sweater and placing it on the bed.
Jackson leans against the desk, watching me with something between amusement and curiosity. "This isn't calm."
I glance up at him. "You're not freaking out."
"That doesn't mean I'm calm," he says, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "I just don't see the point in losing it when it's already messed up."
I pause for a second, considering that, then shrug slightly. "I see the point. It's called emotional expression."
He huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, you're a psych major, right? That tracks."
"Wow," I deadpan, folding another shirt. "Judging me already."
"I'm observing," he corrects, pushing himself off the desk. "There's a difference."
"Sure."
I turn back to my suitcase, trying to ignore the way my thoughts keep circling back to the same thing, which is that I'm sharing a room with a guy I don't know, in a building I'm not supposed to be in, the night before everything starts, and somehow I'm supposed to wake up tomorrow and act like I have my life together.
Cool.
Great.
Love that for me.
Behind me, I hear the dull thud of something hitting the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of a duffel bag being unceremoniously dumped out, and I glance over my shoulder just in time to see Jackson kick off his shoes and flop onto his bed like he's been here for weeks instead of hours.
"You're not even going to unpack?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He stretches his arms behind his head, completely unbothered. "I unpack what I need."
"You need... nothing?"
"I need sleep," he says. "Eventually."
I stare at him for a second, then look at the pile of clothes still sitting in his bag, then back at him again. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been told."
I shake my head, turning back to my side of the room, because if I focus on him too much, I'm going to get annoyed, and I don't have the energy for that right now.
Instead, I focus on something I can control.
I line my notebooks up neatly on the desk, stack my textbooks, adjust them until the edges are perfectly aligned, and I can feel my breathing even out slightly as everything starts to fall into place, at least on this side of the room.
There's something about order that makes everything else feel less overwhelming, like if I can just get this right, maybe the rest won't feel so chaotic.
"Do you always do that?" Jackson's voice cuts in, closer now.
I glance over to see him standing behind me, leaning slightly against the desk, watching me rearrange the same stack of papers for the third time.
"Do what?"
"Make everything look like a Pinterest board."
I pause, then look down at the desk, then back at him. "It's called being organized."
"It's called trying to control everything," he says lightly, but there's something in his tone that makes it land a little heavier than a joke.
I hold his gaze for a second, my fingers still resting on the edge of the notebook. "Yeah," I say quietly. "Maybe."
There's a brief moment where neither of us says anything, the kind that feels like it could turn into something deeper if we let it, and I break it first, clearing my throat as I step back.
"Anyway," I say, forcing my voice back to normal. "I'm going to shower and then try to sleep. Classes start tomorrow, and I'm not showing up looking like I got hit by a bus."
He nods, pushing off the desk. "Fair."
I grab my things and head out, letting the cool air of the hallway hit my face as I exhale slowly, trying to shake off the weird, unexpected tension that just settled between us.
It's fine.
Everything's fine.
It's just one night.
When I get back, the room looks exactly like I left it, except now Jackson is sitting cross-legged on his bed, his phone in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, like he's fully settled into the chaos.
"You eat like that all the time?" I ask, dropping my towel onto my chair.
He glances up. "Like what?"
"Like you're five seconds away from forgetting the food exists."
He shrugs. "Sometimes I do."
"Shocking."
I change quickly, trying not to think too much about the fact that he's literally right there, because overthinking that is a fast track to making this even more awkward than it needs to be, and I climb into bed, pulling the blanket up as I glance at the clock.
9:42.
Perfect.
Enough time to get a decent night's sleep.
I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath, trying to let my body relax, trying to ignore the unfamiliar sounds of the building, the muffled voices in the hallway, the occasional door slamming somewhere down the corridor.
And then-
A burst of laughter.
From Jackson.
I open one eye.
He's watching something on his phone, completely absorbed, shoulders shaking slightly as he tries-and fails-to keep it quiet.
"Are you serious right now?" I mumble.
He glances over, unapologetic. "It's funny."
"It's loud."
"I'm literally whisper-laughing."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
I stare at him, unimpressed, and he grins slightly before turning the volume down, but not off, which feels like a personal attack.
I close my eyes again, trying to ignore it.
I last maybe two minutes.
"Jackson."
"Yeah?"
"Go to sleep."
"It's not even ten."
"I don't care."
He's quiet for a second, and I think-hope-that maybe he'll actually listen.
Then, "Do you always go to bed this early?"
I let out a slow breath, resisting the urge to throw something at him. "I have an eight a.m."
"So do I."
"And you're still doing this?"
"I function on less sleep."
"Congratulations," I mutter. "That's not the flex you think it is."
He laughs again, softer this time, and I can't help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at my lips despite everything.
This is ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
And yet...
It's not as unbearable as I thought it would be.
I roll onto my side, facing away from him, pulling the blanket up a little higher as I let my eyes finally close, the sounds of his phone fading into the background as exhaustion slowly starts to win.
"Hey," he says quietly after a minute.
I hum in response, too tired to open my eyes.
"We'll figure it out tomorrow."
There's something different in his voice this time, less joking, more certain, and I don't know why that settles something in my chest, but it does.
"Yeah," I murmur. "We will."
And for the first time since this whole mess started, I almost believe it.