4. Sophie
Sophie
I woke up tangled in my duvet, utterly disoriented.
The room was bathed in the weak, pale sunlight of a Saturday morning, a stark contrast to the dark, feverish intensity of the night before.
I’d kissed my roommate, and we’d spent the night together.
The most surprising part was that I loved every moment of it.
My mouth still tingled from the kiss, a furious, consuming thing that had broken the silence of weeks.
It happened. It's real.
I had finally kissed Sophie Mercer, the woman I had been systematically fighting for weeks, and in doing so, I had confessed the deep, ugly shame of my past. I sat up in bed, grabbing my shirt and putting it on. The air smelled different, filled with a possibility I’d previously denied.
I glanced across the room. Sophie's bed was empty, the sheets tossed back neatly, her pillow punched into place. She was already gone.
A tight, cold knot formed in my chest. See? Casual. She got her experiment. Now she’s running, just like Riley.
I scrambled out of bed, grabbing my pants, the familiar self-loathing and shame flooding my system. The instinct to deny last night was strong. It was a pressure release, the explosion of my suppressed feelings, a momentary lapse in judgment. My mind filled with excuses.
I walked stiffly to the small kettle to start my coffee, avoiding looking at Sophie's side of the room. A small, neatly folded note was propped up against my mug.
I snatched it up. My name, Iris, was written in Sophie’s neat, slightly slanting script.
Iris,
I have an ankle therapy appointment at 8:30 AM. I’ll be back before noon.
Don’t burn the toast. And don't you dare run away from what happened. We have a lot of new ground to cover.
—Sophie
She wasn't running. Sophie had left me a note. With a smile, I held the note against my chest, feeling the glow of a new love. The note was a tangible tether to the reality of the kiss. The last line was a gentle, insistent demand for continuity, a promise that we were moving forward.
I felt a rush of warmth and profound relief. I allowed myself to sink onto the edge of my bed, reading the note again. The knot in my chest loosened.
A moment later, Maya burst into the room without knocking, already mid-sentence.
"Oh my god, my best friend is alive," Maya declared, tossing her jacket onto my desk. "I’ve been calling you since morning, and since I haven't heard from you since Thursday night, I thought you might be missing.” She looked at me, then at Sophie’s empty bed. “Did you kill the roommate?"
"No," I replied, folding the note carefully and slipping it into my jeans pocket. "I kissed her."
Maya stopped dead, her eyes wide, and whistled. "I admit, I didn’t see that one coming. You actually kissed the object of your contempt? The girl you said was too easy and too blonde?"
I blushed as Maya surveyed the room and took everything in.
"Yes. It turns out she's not easy. She's actually incredibly smart, intense, and really nice," I confessed, my voice still a little hoarse. "And Mark is her gay best friend. Not her boyfriend."
“I would say I told you so, but you never listen. A gay best friend? Iris, I swear to God, you couldn't write this stuff. Your weeks of misery were based on a fundamental misreading of your roommate’s friendship."
"I know," I admitted, rubbing my face. "It was stupid, Maya. Sophie told me she overheard everything I told you about Riley. About the experiment and the shame."
Maya’s laughter immediately died. "She knows?"
"She knows," I confirmed. "And she didn't pity me."
The moment was heavy, the reality of my exposure to Sophie setting in. I couldn’t undo this; couldn’t forget the kiss or the night we’d spent together.
"So, what happens now?" Maya asked, pulling a coffee mug from my cabinet. “You kissed your roommate; the girl you’ve had a crush on for weeks.”
"I don't know," I said, remembering the frantic, consuming nature of the kiss. "She left me a note, saying we had some new ground to cover.”
"Okay, well, that's a good sign," Maya observed, pouring water into the kettle. "It means she’s still interested in you.”
“Of course, she is. She’s a positive and emotionally available person.”
Maya turned to me. “Yeah, she is, so don’t break her heart, Iris. You know what you have to do now, right?"
"Run away and live in the art studio?"
"No. You have to be vulnerable. You have to go on a date," Maya stated firmly. "No more avoidance. Go out, be awkward, and try new things. This is exactly what you need to forget Riley.”
I’d already forgotten Riley. Sophie was all I’d thought of for the last few weeks. But the idea of going on a date with her terrified me. Of course, I wanted to know her, but a date meant admitting permanence.
"I don't know how to do that," I whispered.
"Then, learn," Maya said, handing me the kettle. "I am rooting for you two.”
The coffee shop was loud and crowded, but the noise barely registered.
I sat across from Sophie, nursing a black coffee, its bitterness familiar and comforting.
It was late-evening, and time to have a talk about what happened last night.
It was just Sophie and me, nowhere to hide.
The truth was, I hadn't been this terrified since the moment I walked in on Riley.
This felt like a second chance at devastation.
Sophie watched me, her gaze steady and patient. Her ankle, still wrapped, rested carefully on a chair pulled close to her. She didn't look like the untouchable golden girl, but like the sincere woman who had kissed me last night.
“I like you, Iris,” she began, direct as usual, startling my poor little heart into joy instantly.
“I kissed you last night, and I’m not in the habit of kissing women I don’t like.
” When I remained silent, she added, “Last night wasn’t accidental for me, so if you’re thinking you can deny it, you can drop the idea right now.
” When I knitted my eyebrows together, she added, “I know you're fighting this.
I can practically hear your defense mechanisms building barricades. "
I flinched, recognizing the truth. "I’m not. I...I do admit I was a little disappointed when I found your bed empty.” Sophie smiled, and I realized she knew me better than I knew myself sometimes. “I meant it when I kissed you." The memory of the kiss, which still burned on my lips.
"Good," she said simply. "Because I did too. That's what we need to talk about. The kiss wasn’t accidental, which means it’s the start of something."
A future. Together. My mind was still too scared to process such a possibility. I remember thinking Sophie would be the ideal girlfriend a few weeks ago, but was I ready for that kind of commitment?
My roommate leaned forward, her expression intensely earnest. "I know what you're afraid of, Iris. You think this is going to be my experiment. That I'm going to get bored of you and go back to someone uncomplicated. And I get that fear. Riley hurt you in a fundamental way."
I stared into my coffee, unable to meet her gaze. "I can't do that again. I can’t be someone’s temporary mess."
"Then don't be," Sophie challenged, her voice firm.
"Because you're not my temporary anything.
I haven't been able to think straight since you moved in.
I like your chaos, Iris. I liked the intensity in your eyes when we fought.
I liked the way you slammed the door. I liked that you weren't intimidated by me, and I liked your art even when I didn't understand it.
And I like the way you kiss after a fight.
I still like all those things about you. "
With every word, she was destroyed my well-built defenses. She was the sun, the light I couldn’t help but crave being around even if it burned me in the end.
She paused, then lowered her voice. " I liked you, even when I thought you were just the prickly roommate, but I like you even more now. It makes me want to fight for you. You’re not convenient, Iris Hart, but you’re what I want.”
She reached across the table, not to take my hand yet, but to rest her palm flat against the wood between us.
"So, let's be clear. I want to date you, Iris.
I want to spend time with you outside of Room 418.
I want to be the woman who proves Riley was wrong about you.
I want to be your first, your only choice, and I want you to be mine. "
The directness of her admission—the desire to date, the explicit acknowledgment of my trauma, and the clear confession of her feelings—was overwhelming.
It felt like the earth settling beneath my feet for the first time in a year.
But it was the thing I liked the most about her.
She was my opposite in every way, which is what drew me to her.
I looked at her, seeing the sincerity, the strength, and the quiet determination that defined her on the field, now directed entirely at me.
"All right," I whispered, the word feeling enormous. "Let’s date. I like you too, Sophie, though it might not be easy to express my feelings.”
Sophie smiled, a genuine, blinding flash of warmth. "That was easy, Hart. I thought I’d have to do a lot of convincing.”
Without hesitation, she reached across the table and firmly laced her fingers through mine. Her touch was warm, grounding, and absolutely certain.
I squeezed back, feeling a wave of unexpected lightness wash over me.
The knot in my stomach finally dissolved, replaced by a quiet, steady rhythm.
This was the start of something new, something risky that could potentially be life changing.
The Golden Retriever and the Angry Artist. It was terrifying, and it was perfect.
The next day, I did something unusual and went to a college party with Sophie. It was like an unofficial coming out of our relationship, but we both stayed away from labelling it yet. Sophie watched me with her back pressed to the wall, drinking a beer, as people began to file in.