1. Chapter One #2
I turn back to Sophie, who is still smiling at me like I’m the most interesting thing she’s seen all day. Up close, her eyes are an almost startling shade of green, clear and open in a way I’ve never quite managed to be.
She smells safe.
I suddenly become very aware of my own scent, peach and strawberry brightened with a flicker of lemon, always a little louder than I mean it to be. I hope she doesn’t mind. I’ve never quite figured out how to make it quieter.
“I like your cardigan,” she says, as if she’s been waiting patiently for me to look over everything.
“Oh. Thank you.”
Awkward. Brilliant response. Truly unforgettable.
Sophie doesn’t seem to notice.
The door swings open again before I can think of something less embarrassing to say, and my parents reappear balancing an uneven stack of boxes between them.
My dad nudges the door shut with his foot. “Fragile,” he announces, as if we might otherwise assume the glass edges poking out of the top box are decorative.
“That’s my fault,” I say quickly. “I packed those.”
“Of course you did,” my mother says fondly.
Sophie watches with open curiosity as they set everything down. “So,” she says, brushing her hands lightly together, “what are you studying?”
I open my mouth to answer, but my dad beats me to it.
“She’s going to be a scientist,” he says, unmistakable pride threading through every word. “Just like her old man.”
“Dad,” I groan at the same time my mom does.
Sophie laughs, loud and unembarrassed, and the sound fills the room without overwhelming it. “I love that,” she says. “That’s adorable.”
“It is not adorable,” I mutter.
“It’s very adorable,” my mother corrects gently.
I adjust the strap on my bag and clear my throat. “Biology,” I say. “But I’m specializing in entomology.”
Sophie’s eyes widen rather than narrowing, which feels like a small victory. “That’s so cool.”
“Most people say that and then look mildly alarmed,” I admit.
“I don’t mind insects,” she says seriously. “They’re important.”
“They are,” I say, before I can stop the quick flare of pleasure in my chest.
My mother smiles at the exchange, then turns to Sophie. “And what about you?”
“Sociology,” she replies easily. “I want to study social structures. Group dynamics and communities, eventually.”
That makes sense, I think immediately. She carries herself like someone who notices how people fit together.
“That suits you,” my mother says warmly.
Sophie beams again, and for a moment I forget the tightness in my chest from earlier. She looks as excited to be here as I feel, just in a confident, more outward way.
Maybe that’s something we can share.
While my parents start organizing the boxes into neat stacks along the wall, I kneel beside one labeled DESK and pry it open.
The frames are right on top.
For a second I just look at them, my fingers resting on the edge of the tissue paper.
I’m suddenly aware of Sophie watching from nearby, of the possibility that this might be the exact moment she realizes she’s been assigned a deeply strange roommate.
If she freaks, I can always send them back with my parents…
I lift one out anyway.
The glass catches the light as I tilt it upright, revealing the pinned butterfly inside, its wings spread in a perfect gradient from deep rust to pale gold.
Sophie leans closer.
“That’s beautiful,” she says, and she means it. I can tell.
Some of the tightness in my chest loosens.
“It’s a red admiral,” I tell her, before I can stop myself. “Vanessa atalanta. They migrate, of course, but not in huge swarms like monarchs. They travel surprisingly far for something that weighs almost nothing.”
“That’s incredible,” she says, her voice lined with awe.
I blink. “Most people don’t say that.”
“Well,” she replies seriously, “most people are wrong.”
My mom glances over her shoulder, clearly pleased, while my dad nods at the specimen like it’s a particularly impressive certificate.
Encouraged, I reach into the box again and lift out the second frame, this one holding a beetle with a polished green shell that gleams like enamel.
“This is what I want to work with eventually,” I say, a little more subdued. “Field research. Classification. Migration tracking. That sort of thing.”
Sophie’s eyes light up. “That sounds amazing.”
I shrug, suddenly aware of how earnest I must sound. “It probably sounds boring to most people.”
“It doesn’t,” she says simply.
Then, as if remembering something, she spins toward her suitcase, digs briefly through the top layer, and pulls out a folded scarf.
It’s a pale blue, patterned with delicate butterflies in pastel pink and ivory.
“These are my favorite,” she says, holding it up. “I’ve always loved them.”
I stare at the fabric, then at her.
“You did not just strategically produce butterfly themed clothing,” I say.
She grins. “I absolutely did.”
My mom laughs gently, the sound full of relief, and I realize she’s been watching this whole exchange like someone witnessing a fragile experiment succeed.
“Well,” she says gently, “I think your father and I should probably start the drive home before it gets too late.”
My stomach drops a little.
It was always going to happen. I knew that. Still.
“That’s a good idea,” Dad agrees, already brushing his hands together like the decision has been officially logged.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say quickly, pushing to my feet before either of them can argue.
Outside, the air is warmer than I expect, late sunlight still clinging to the brick like it doesn’t want to leave yet.