The inside of Saint Calixte looks even more sophisticated than I expected—less university, more resurrected empire.

Every building seems carved out of ancient Roman ambition: tall colonnades, wide stone steps, arches stacked like crowns, and walls in warm sand-colored stone that make the whole place glow under the sun.

Each wing looks identical—same polished marble floors, same towering archways, and a stubborn determination to pretend it’s still the Renaissance.

Then the students spill through it all, their footsteps, voices, and clumsy collisions filling the space with unmistakable life. Papers hit the ground somewhere behind me, followed by a muttered curse that shatters the stillness like a pebble tossed into a fountain.

It is chaos wearing couture architecture.

I take a deep breath, ready to stop someone and ask for directions, when I see a girl absolutely destroying a boy with her words near the main hall entrance—finger wagging, voice sharp enough to cut through the crowd.

I decide, very wisely, to mind my own business and depend on the campus map the university sent.

My first label on it?

Scholarship Block.

Of course.

The farthest building on campus.

Figures.

The dorm building looks different when I finally reach it—older than the glossy pictures, smaller than the virtual tour makes it seem, and smelling faintly of hostel detergent, old wood, and a thousand nervous students who'd lived, cried, and caffeinated here before me.

A carved stone plaque near the entrance reads: Aster Wing—Scholarship Housing.

Under it, an owl emblem etched in silver stares down at me like it already knows my GPA.

The entrance hall is surprisingly grand for a building shoved at the edge of campus. A huge vaulted space opens up inside, held together by two massive archways facing opposite directions. One archway leads into a corridor marked Boys' Dorms, the other into Girls' Dorms, each lit by elongated lanterns hanging from black iron hooks.

The moment I step inside, a wave of perfect, manufactured comfort washes over me.

Not the suffocating chill of overenthusiastic AC.

Not the sticky warmth of ninety students breathing in the same hallway.

Just... right.

Like the entire building has been set to a precise temperature—twenty-four degrees, maybe—engineered for calm, for quiet, for the illusion that scholarship kids weren't housed in the campus equivalent of the outskirts.

I check my allocation.

Aster Wing—Girls' Dorms—Second Floor, Room 218.

I spare one look at the queue for the lift—a full line of exhausted students, overpacked trolleys, and one girl fanning herself dramatically like she'd faint. Nope. Not happening.

Second floor.

Thank God.

I tighten my grip on my suitcase and take the stairs.

The second floor hallway hums with noise—zippers scraping, someone dragging luggage like it has personally offended them, shouts of "bro the adapter is missing again!", and the muffled soundtrack of someone crying behind a closed door.

It feels like stepping into a beehive made of cardboard walls and shared anxiety.

My heartbeat syncs with the buzz of it.

After what feels like a kilometer-long walk through identical doors and identical chaos, I finally pause outside my room.

Room 218.

I exhale once—quiet, controlled, like I needed the air to rearrange something inside me.

Please don't let my roommate be unhinged. Please don't let her be a neat freak. Or someone who snores like trauma. Or a psychopath.

I lift my hand to the doorknob and twist it.

The click sounds louder than it should've—as if the door was announcing my arrival before I even stepped inside.

The room that greets me exceeds every expectation I'd prepared myself for.

Two single beds sit opposite each other, tucked neatly against the walls like they've been placed with geometric precision. The mattresses look surprisingly plush, covered with matching moon-grey duvets that give the whole place a soft, cloud-like feel.

Against the far wall, two tall wardrobes—one oak brown, one painted a muted cream—stood side by side like quiet sentinels. And by the window, bathed in warm mid-morning sunlight, a long shared study table stretched across the wall.

Each half has its own little universe: one side messy with sticky notes and tangled pens, the other clean and untouched, clearly waiting for me.

Fairy-string lights were draped over the curtain rod in a lazy loop and a soft-glow lamp perched on the nightstand, unlit but still adding a soft, lived-in charm to the room. Tiny potted plants—succulents, trailing vines, one tiny cactus with a smiley-face pot—decorate every corner and crevice, as if the occupant had declared war on empty surfaces.

The moment my foot crossed the threshold, a strange calm washed over me.

Thank you, dormitory gods.

I'd been so busy admiring the wonder that was now my room that I completely missed the girl on the left bed—cat-ear headband, wired headphones, gently bobbing her head to music only she could hear. She looked so content, so settled, that the room suddenly felt like I'd stepped into someone else's diary.

The moment the door clicks shut, her head lifts—honey-coloured eyes met mine, warm and sharp all at once—one earbud slipping out as confusion mixed with mild curiosity flickers across her face.

"Uh... hello?" I say, suddenly hyper-aware that I might be intruding on her space, which is ridiculous because this room was technically half mine.

She blinks once, then gives me a small, polite smile—not unfriendly, but definitely not the sunshine warmth I'd hoped for.

"Hello," she says, sitting up a little. She points toward the suitcase propped neatly near the wardrobe. "I think this might be your luggage? They brought it in this morning. I assumed they delivered it to the wrong room."

My anxiety shot straight into my throat.

"No—um—this is the right room," I say quickly, trying to sound confident and failing miserably. "I'm your new roommate. Aavya. Room 218."

She still looks unsure, and something inside me twists—the familiar little fear that I'd wandered somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.

I reach for my phone, unlocking it before holding it out with a small, sheepish smile. "See? The email says 218. I swear I'm not trespassing in... whatever this Pinterest dream is."

For a heartbeat, her expression went blank.

Emotionless. Unreadable.

And I instantly regretted thanking the dormitory gods.

But then—slowly, beautifully—her face unfolds into a real smile, warmth blooming where stiffness was.

"Oh! That makes sense now," she says, sitting up straighter. "I don't even remember the last time I shared this space with someone."

A flicker of something—loneliness? Sadness?—crosses her features so fast I might've imagined it but she masks it almost instantly with another bright grin.

"I'm Mahi, by the way."

There was an ease to her voice now, like the tension from moments ago finally exhales.

"Well, welcome to Aster Wing," she says with mock grandeur, sweeping her arm dramatically across the room. "I uh..., tend to make things cozy. It helps."

I look at the plants, the fairy lights, the soft corners she'd carved out of a standard-issue dorm room. "It's nice," I say honestly. "Really nice."

My gaze drifts over her leafy army again, amused. "You... have a lot of plants."

She let out a dramatic groan. "I know. They multiply when I'm not looking. I water one, and suddenly three of its cousins show up like they own the place."

I snort—and instantly, her face lights up like she'd been waiting for the sound.

She tucks her legs under herself, her black Saint Calixte hoodie hanging loose around her in that effortless, cozy way, and leans forward slightly.

"So, you're a fresher, right? Most scholarship kids are."

There it is—that tiny reminder. That invisible line. That quiet label.

Still, her tone isn’t pitying. Just curious.

Open. Gentle. Unassuming.

"Yeah," I say, setting my suitcase with the rest of the pile. "First-year."

"Nice," she nods approvingly. "You'll survive. Mostly. The orientation is the boring part—you'll get used to the rest."

I open my mouth to ask what she means when—

My stomach growls.

Loudly. Obscenely.

We both freeze.

Her eyebrows rise, amused. "Wow. That sounded personal."

I press a hand to my stomach, mortified. "I-uh-I haven't eaten since morning. I was going to grab something before orientation..."

"Come on," she says, slipping off the bed and pushing her slippers on. "Let's get you fed. The cafeteria's a hike from here, and if you go alone, you will get lost and end up crying near the sports complex. Ask me how I know."

A tiny laugh escapes me.

When she stands, I finally notice her hair—long, thick raven waves falling all the way to her waist, the cherry-tinted ends swaying lightly as she moves, like they have their own quiet confidence.

"You don't have to come," I say, though the idea of wandering a massive campus alone makes my stomach twist for an entirely different reason.

She shrugs, casual but kind. "I was heading out anyway. And roommates don't let roommates starve on day one. It's like... an unspoken oath."

There is something so simple, so effortless in the way she says it that I find myself nodding before thinking.

"Okay," I murmur. "Food sounds... good."

"Food always sounds good," she corrects. "Especially here. It's the only thing motivating half this campus to stay enrolled."

She grabs her phone, slings a tiny bag over her shoulder. "Ready?"

And strangely, despite the anxiety humming in my veins, I am.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's go."

And just like that—warm, chatty, slightly chaotic Mahi leads the way—I follow her out of the room and into the buzz of campus life.

The moment we step outside, she throws an arm out dramatically, gesturing at the long, winding pathway ahead like she is unveiling a tragedy.

"So here's the deal with scholarship dorms," she announces. "We live in exile. Everything is far. Library? Pack snacks. Canteen? Hydrate first. Lecture halls? Consider taking a pilgrimage."

"It's that bad?" I ask.

She looks at me with grave sincerity. "Aavya. I once left for class and found God on the way. And still reached five minutes late."

I snort. "That sounds... extreme."

"Oh, it is." She flicks her hair over her shoulder. "This dorm was placed here so the university could pretend we exist but also pretend we don't. It's very 'social experiment' coded."

She wasn't exaggerating.

By the time we finally reach the canteen, I feel like I'd crossed state borders, aged two years, and unlocked a new kind of hunger that probably had its own name in medical textbooks.

My stomach makes a sound that could've been used in a horror movie.

Mahi pats my arm sympathetically. "Welcome to Saint Calixte cardio. Free and involuntary. Not refundable."

The canteen looks massive from the outside, but inside it opens up even wider—like a maze of gleaming counters and people moving in curated chaos.

My gaze sweeps over polished food stations, uniformed staff holding slim digital menus, students flowing through the space like they’d rehearsed it.

Everything looks organized yet overwhelming—too many choices, too many people, too much noise. I must have looked completely lost because Mahi huffs out a laugh.

"It's split into sections," she explains, pointing like a seasoned tour guide. "Breakfast counters, lunch counters, snacks, beverages, desserts—you pick your battlefield. Variety is the only good thing this place has."

“It’s… huge,” I breath.

“Huge and always chaotic,” she corrects. “Calixte may be ancient and snobbish, but they know better than to feed students badly. It’s a reputation thing.”

The whole space throbs with life—and the layered smell of various cuisines trying to coexist.

As I scan the room, something shifts in my periphery—a server opening a door tucked against the back wall.

For a blink, I catch what lay behind it: calmer lighting, real glassware, and furniture that looks far too expensive to exist anywhere near student budgets.

Then the door clicks shut, cutting that world off from the noise and chaos on our side.

"What's that?" I ask.

Mahi follows my gaze and smirks. “Ah. That, my child, is the entrance to heaven. Where God personally prepares food for pampered brats and entitled princesses.”

I blink.

She leans in conspiratorially. “Basically, it’s the elite dining room. Don’t get me wrong—most rich kids still eat here with us mortals. But the ones at the top of the food chain?” She tilts her head toward the door.

“They have special privileges. Imported ingredients, Michelin-star chefs, sparkling water flown in from Europe… the works. You need special access pass to even breathe in there.”

“Of course,” I mutter. “Naturally.”

We walk toward the seating area, weaving through the noise and movement. I point toward the food stations.

“Should we go order?” I ask.

Mahi stops. Looks at me. Smirks like she’d been waiting for that question.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” she says, patting the back of the nearest booth.

“At Calixte, you don’t go to the food. The food comes to you.”

I blink. “What?”

“Sit,” she commands with a grin.

We slide into a booth by the window.

Sunlight pours in, catching the strands of Mahi’s raven-black hair, giving her a soft, almost cinematic glow.

Before I could even figure out what to do next, she tapped the small digital panel fixed to the table. It lights up with our seat number.

I blink at it, confused. “What’s… that for?”

“Oh,” Mahi says, already unlocking her phone, “this is how you order. Once you sit, you use the Calixte App, enter the seat number, choose your food, and it gets delivered right to your table.”

I stare. “That’s… extremely efficient.”

“It is,” she agrees. “Also extremely annoying when the app crashes during rush hour. Anyway—since you don’t have your student ID yet, you can’t log in.”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly aware of how new I truly was.

“You’ll get your ID and login credentials after orientation,” she reassures me. “The app is literally your life here. Class schedules, assignments, attendance, library access, food orders, campus maps—everything.”

“Right,” I mutter. “No pressure.”

She waves me off. “It’s easy once you get used to it. For now, I’ll order.”

She glances up. “What do you want?”

"Something light," I say. "Just a sandwich, please."

“Got it.” She taps quickly, adding an iced coffee for herself. “Food should be here in five minutes.”

When she sets her phone down, I finally ask, “So… orientation? What am I walking into?”

Mahi sighs like I’d asked the most exhausting question in existence. “Okay, so here’s how it works. They divide all the freshers into groups of ten. Each group gets assigned a senior mentor who drags you around campus, pretends to be helpful, and tells you where not to get lost.”

“That’s… organized,” I say.

She gives a weary smile.

"It's a recipe for chaos. Emphasis on chaos."

“Is it really that bad?”

“Depends,” she says, suddenly avoiding my eyes. She toys with her sling bag, voice dipping a little. “Mostly on who you get as your mentor.”

I lean forward. “Why? What’s wrong with the seniors?”

She shrugs—but it is too casual, too practiced. “Some are great. Some are… intense.”

“Intense how?”

Before she could answer, a server arrives with our food—two neatly plated sandwiches and her iced coffee.

She pushes my plate toward me with forced cheerfulness.

"Eat. You look like you’re about to pass out."

The moment slips away like a shadow.

Trying to lighten the air, I ask,

"So, what's your major?"

Her expression softens instantly. “Medicine and surgery,” she says proudly. “Which means no sleep, too much coffee, and a lifetime subscription to academic pain. You?”

“Political science.”

“Oooh.” She grins. “You’re brave too. That department is wild.”

And soon we’re talking about everything—schedules, classes, professors rumored to be secretly evil, the ones who are actually helpful, and the seniors who are tyrants in disguise.

It feels natural. Easy. Comfortable.

Like we weren’t strangers who’d just met, but two people slipping into a rhythm without trying.

We eat slowly, still wrapped in conversation, until I glance at my phone.

“Shoot,” I whisper. “I have to go. Orientation.”

I expect her to offer to walk with me, but instead Mahi slides out of the booth with a soft, almost hesitant smile.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, tying her hair into a messy ponytail. “Trust me.”

“You’re not coming?”

For a second—just one—her expression tightens. Something unreadable flickers across her face.

Then it was gone.

“I’ll pass,” she says lightly, waving her ID card. “I’ve got something to take care of.”

“Oh.” I stand, adjusting my bag. “Thank you, though. Really. For… all of this.”

Her shoulders ease, her usual warmth sliding back in.

“Always,” she says with a wink. “Text me if you get kidnapped by a senior. Preferably before the kidnapping becomes emotional.”

I roll my eyes, but I am smiling.

With one last glance at her, I sling my bag over my shoulder and step away from the booth.

Sticking to the route she’d shown me, I make my way toward the auditorium—heart steady, stomach quiet, mind buzzing with the first real taste of university life.

Everyone says Calixte starts testing you the moment you step inside.

But as I follow the winding path toward the auditorium, it doesn’t feel like a test—it feels like a warning.

Like the campus already knows who I am and who I’m going to collide with.