2. Sophie #3
Then, a faint, barely audible sound—the slow, careful shift of weight—came from the shadows outside the door.
Maya moved, holding me. “It’s okay, Iris. You’ll get over it someday, but I know how deep Riley’s betrayal cut.” I held my best friend, letting the burden inside me lighten a little. “I’m here for you, however long it takes.”
“Thanks.” I sniffed, still not knowing that Sophie stood outside the door, listening to me bare my heart.
It took her five more seconds to open the door, to come bursting in like nothing had happened.
“Good evening, Hart.” Her gaze moved to Maya. “Maya. Looks like someone’s been having a wine party in the room while I was gone.”
She put her bag on her table, and I moved away from Maya, making sure she didn’t know of my misery.
The dormitory air was thick and cold when I finally climbed into bed.
The raw, ugly truth about Riley, and the humiliation of having been seen by Maya in that state, left me shaky.
I pulled the duvet up to my chin, staring into the oppressive dark, listening to the patter of a sudden, cold rain beginning to fall outside the window.
I was awake long after the usual silence of the dorm settled in. A quiet sound cut through the rain—a muffled sigh from Sophie’s bed. Then, her voice, low and reflective, spoke into the encompassing darkness. She didn't turn on her light. She didn't shift.
"I hate this silence, Iris," Sophie admitted, her voice trembling slightly, laced with unexpected vulnerability. "It’s worse than yelling. It feels like we’re strangers sharing a tomb."
I gripped the duvet tighter, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. I didn't want to talk, but the raw honesty in her tone was disarming.
"I know you think I'm easy," Sophie continued, her voice catching just a little. "Easy with a smile, easy with my life, easy to figure out. But I'm not. You were right about one thing, though. I am performing. It’s my shield. The 'Captain Sophie' thing is suffocating sometimes.”
I heard her shift, and I could feel the weight of her sincerity across the dividing space.
"It’s what people want to see, right?" she asked the ceiling.
"They want the leader who is never scared, never hurt, never makes a mistake.
They see the cheerful charmer, and they think they know the whole story.
They don't see the hours of pain, the injuries, the fear that one bad game will make them regret putting a captain's band on my arm. "
My heart thudded, taking in her confessions.
I wanted to know more about her, but was too afraid to ask.
She paused, and the silence this time felt heavy with shared secrets, even if I didn't know hers.
"I perform because I'm terrified of letting my team down.
It's easier to be the Golden Girl than the one who’s scared she's going to mess up the final play. I don’t claim to be selfless, but I think everyone likes a person who is full of warmth. "
The emotional vulnerability stripped away the last of my defensive anger.
This wasn't the shallow jock I had invented; this was a woman under intense pressure, wrestling with her own expectations.
It paralleled my own fear of failure, my own need to hide behind a mask of indifference.
But at least, she had the courage to talk about it.
I finally responded, the words rough and barely audible, forcing myself to participate in the sincerity.
"It's exhausting," I admitted, speaking from my own experience with art critiques. "The effort of having to maintain our cold war."
“Cold war? Is that what we’re calling it?” Her bright tone made me smile.
The opportunity felt terrifyingly clear. I had to apologize for the malice, not the defense.
"I owe you an apology, Sophie," I whispered, turning my head toward her shadow. "For the party. And for the class."
"You don't owe me anything—"
"I do," I interrupted softly. "I judged you. I decided, immediately, that you were just another dumb jock here for an easy ride. I assumed you were vapid and that the world was effortless for you. I weaponized my own assumptions against you, and that was unfair. You’re not dumb, and you're clearly not easy. "
A small, genuine chuckle came from her side of the room. "Thank you, Iris. That's actually the nicest thing you've said to me."
"It's the truth," I confirmed. I wanted to apologize for the Mark comment, but the lie about his relationship status still felt too fragile to address.
"I accept your apology," Sophie said simply. She paused, then added, her voice warm, "Does that mean our cold war is over?”
“Yeah.” My voice was low, but solid. I closed my eyes, the cold knot in my stomach finally loosening. "Good night, Sophie," I said, using her name deliberately, letting the sound sit naturally in the darkness.
"Good night, Iris." It might’ve been the first time she used my given name.
I fell asleep listening to the steady rhythm of the rain, no longer focused on my anger, but on the sudden, terrifyingly real weight of having an honest person in the dark beside me.