Chapter Text
The dorm room was smaller than the photographs suggested. Two beds, two desks, a sliver of floor between them barely wide enough for two people to stand.
Zanka paused in the doorway, with a box labeled ‘Books’ digging harsh red lines into his forearms, staring at the space that would be home for the next year. The walls were coloured beige, though streaks of white bled through. It was obvious that someone had tried to cover a stain on the ceiling with white paint that didn’t quite match.
“It’s cosy,” Riyo offered from behind him, though her voice gave away that specific edge that meant she was trying not to laugh.
“It’s a closet,” Rudo said, pushing past them in the cramped place. He dumped an armful of Zanka’s bedding onto the nearest mattress. “A closet that costs how much?”
“Rudo.” Enjin warned. Though there was no real threat behind the words, the boy immediately busied himself with straightening the sheets he’d just thrown down.
Zanka stepped inside. The floor was scuffed, clearly worn down. His shoes squeaked against it, creating a jarring noise. He set his box on the desk nearest the window— his desk now— and his fingers found initials carved into the surface.
Inside a heart.
The names inside faded, illegible by years of pencils and restless hands.
Zanka wondered if they’d gotten what they wanted.
If they’d been brave enough to try.
His mother’s voice echoed— Discipline is the highest form of love. Self-control is godliness.
“You’ll make it work.” Enjin appeared beside him with another box, setting it down on the desk. “Just takes some settling in.”
Riyo perched on the edge of what would be Zanka’s bed, as she looked around the room. Her legs swinging, sneakers barely grazing the floor. “Remember when you thought you’d get one of those huge rooms like in the movies? With the common area and everything?”
Zanka managed a smile, “I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”
“You were thinking your parents’ money would buy you more than a shoebox.” Rudo mumbled, raising a laugh for Enjin and Riyo. Zanka himself couldn’t help but stifle a laugh too despite himself.
They worked in relative silence after that, except the occasional comment or two.
They managed to create a system — Enjin hauling boxes from the car, Rudo lugging them down the hallway, Riyo and Zanka finding places for everything in the limited space.
The room slowly took shape. Clothes folded into the dresser drawers. A lamp finding its place on the desk — that Riyo had insisted he needed, even though the overhead lighting was ‘perfectly adequate,’ according to his mother's last email. Textbooks stacked against each other, spines aligned.
Law books, mostly. Constitutional law. Legal theory. The sight of them made something tighten in Zanka’s throat, but he swallowed it down.
This was the right path.
The prestigious path.
The path his parents had chosen, which meant it was the path God had chosen, which meant there was no use arguing.
“Alright.” Enjin announced, dusting off his trousers with his hands. “Anything else before we head out?”
Zanka shook his head, then paused. “Actually— thank ya. Really. I know it was out of yer way.”
“It wasn’t!” Enjin replied, reaching over and ruffling Zanka’s hair. “You can always ask us for anything. First year is always difficult.”
Zanka nodded bashfully, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks.
Riyo hugged him at the door. Her arms tight around his shoulders, “Text me,” she murmured, patting him on the back. “Whenever.”
“I will.” The words came automatically. He meant them, mostly.
Rudo offered a fist bump that turned into an awkward handshake, then back to a fist bump when they both laughed. “Don’t let the law books kill you, man.”
“I’ll try.”
And then they were gone. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway— Rudo’s voice carried back in broken fragments of some story that made Riyo laugh, the sound bright and warm.
The door clicked shut.
Silence settled over the room. Zanka stood in the center of the shoebox (well, his shoebox now) and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
The remaining boxes sat stacked by his desk. He knelt beside them, and pulled the first one open. More books— novels this time, the spines cracked and worn. He’d hidden them between his textbooks when packing, and had told his mother they were required reading for the course. She pursed her lips but said nothing.
Beneath the books, wrapped in an old sweater, that still smelled faintly of the incense from home, was his violin case.
Zanka’s hands stilled.
The case was scuffed leather, worn soft at the corners where he’d gripped it thousands of times. He had gotten it when he was twelve, after his parents decided that classical music was ‘appropriately prestigious’.
Piano was too common, his mother had said. Cello was too large. Violin, though— violin suggested refinement, and of course discipline.
He lifted it out carefully, and set it on his desk. The clasps opened with a soft click that echoed in the small room.
The instrument gleamed in the late afternoon sun; dark wood that seemed to hold warmth even untouched, even in the cold of the room.
He’d hated it at first.
Hated the discipline it required, the hours of practice, the way his mother would sit in the corner of the room during lessons, her presence a constant reminder that this wasn’t for him.
This was for the family.
For their image.
For God’s glory, she would say, though Zanka suspected God cared very little about whether he could perform a proper vibrato.
But somewhere between the late hours practicing, something shifted.
He ran his fingers along the strings now, barely touching, not pressing hard enough to make sound.
When he played, the rules loosened. The careful control he maintained over every word, every action, every stray thought that flickered through his mind— it all fell away when his bow touched the strings.
In those moments, he could feel things. Anger that had nowhere else to go. Longing that lingered for anything. Joy that wasn’t based on approval or achievement. Grief for a version of himself he’d never be allowed to meet.
His parents would never understand that. To them, music was another box to check. Another achievement to display.
His father had once caught him crying while playing. He stood in the doorway of the practice room, watching with that expression that could only mean disappointment. “Music is a discipline,” he said finally. “Not an indulgence. Control yourself.”
Zanka had learned to cry silently after that. He learned to feel everything on the inside, where it couldn’t be seen. Where it couldn’t taint him.
Purity, his mother always said, was a choice.
A series of choices, made daily, made hourly. Every thought. Every desire crucified. The flesh was weak, corrupted, always pulling toward sin. Toward dishonourable things. Unnatural things.
She never said the word directly. Didn’t need to. It was there, in the back of his mind, during every sermon about marriage, about God’s design, about the proper order of things.
He’d learned to look down during those parts, to examine his hands, to recite scriptures in his head until the feeling passed.
The feeling always passed.
He didn’t play now. The walls were too thin, and he didn’t know who his roommate would be. Didn’t know if they’d understand, or if they would hear the things he couldn’t hide within his music.
But just seeing it there, within reach, made something in his chest ease slightly.
Zanka closed the case gently and turned back to unpacking.
Clothes into drawers, sorted by type and colour. Toiletries lined up in the shared bathroom— toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, the special soap his mother insisted on because it was ‘clean.’ Everything in its place. Neat. Ordered. The way it was supposed to be.
The way he was supposed to be.
His phone buzzed against the desk.
A message from his mother: Have you settled in? Remember, Father and I expect you to maintain your GPA. Law school admissions are very competitive. We’re trusting you to make us proud. Praying for you.
He stared at the words.
Before typing back: Yes. I’ll make you proud.
The lie came easily. It always did. He’d been practicing his whole life.
Another buzz.
Good. Remember your devotions. Don’t let the secular environment corrupt you. There will be many temptations. Guard your heart.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I will.
He set the phone face-down and returned to the boxes.
His roommate hadn’t arrived yet. Outside, he could hear voices in the hallway— other students moving in, laughing, calling to each other with the easy familiarity of people who’d already decided to be friends. The sounds of people beginning something new, something chosen.
Zanka sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress was thin, the springs prodding against him. He stared at the violin case on his desk, at the window beyond it where the sky was beginning to fade into evening, hues of red and orange painted the sky.
His fingers curled into his palms. Nails creating small crescents into his skin as he stared.
Outside, something moved— a flutter against the window, quick and erratic, the sound of tiny claws scrabbling against glass. Zanka’s head snapped up in time to see a small bird, sparrow or finch perhaps, land on the narrow ledge outside.
It perched there for a moment, head cocked that made it seem almost curious, eyes fixed on him through the glass with an intensity that felt almost deliberate, almost knowing. Then it took off into the bruising sky— purple and reds bleeding together like watercolours— with a freedom so casual, so effortless, it felt like mockery.
His chest tightened, ribs constricting around lungs that suddenly felt too small.
The door burst open.
“Oh hell yeah, this is gonna be cozy as fuck.”
The voice was loud — too loud for the small space, too loud for the quiet Zanka had been maintaining. It filled every corner, spilled into the hallway, probably reached the floor below and maybe even the one beneath that.
The kind of voice that didn’t ask permission, didn’t apologise for taking up space, didn’t seem to understand the concept of volume control or appropriate indoor voice levels.
Zanka stood quickly, smoothing his shirt even though it didn’t need smoothing, a nervous habit he’d never quite managed to break.
The guy stood in the doorway with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and grinned brightly. He was tall and lean with dark long locs falling past his shoulders, adorned with golden cuffs that almost glistened in the light.
A faded graphic t-shirt (something with a bird on it, wings spread mid-flight, the design cracked and peeling) hung loosely over ripped grey jeans that looked deliberately torn at the knees.
On his collarbone, just barely visible above the collar of his shirt, was a small tattoo.
Of what looked like a bird?
“Hello.” Zanka’s voice came out too formal, too measured. “Zanka. Zanka Nijiku. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet ya. I look forward to being yer roommate this year.”
The boy stared at him.
Then he laughed— not cruel, just delighted, genuinely amused, like Zanka had told the best joke he had heard all week.
“Oh man, we gotta fix that.” He dropped his bag with a heavy thud and stuck out his hand, palm calloused. “Jabber. Just Jabber. And ya don’t have to do that shit with me, seriously. We’re gonna be basically seeing each other naked every day, right? No point in all the formal crap.”
Zanka’s stomach did something complicated— a twist, a drop, a flutter like wings beating against the cage of his ribs.
“We’re roommates,” he said quickly, taking Jabber’s hand for exactly two seconds before releasing it, the warmth of Jabber’s palm lingering on his own. “Nudity isn’t— that’s not appropriate. That’s not allowed.”
Jabber’s grin widened, something teasing flickering in his pink irises, “Dude. Shared bathroom. Tiny room. It’s gonna happen. I’m just sayin’, no need to be weird about it.”
He grabbed his bag again, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his shirt as he slung it onto the unclaimed bed with careless ease.
Zanka blinked. He, Jabber, had facial piercings. They shimmered with the light every time he moved. Zanka tried to look away, but something pulled him in closer. Closer into the orbit of Jabber Wonger.
“You already unpacked? Damn, efficient. I like it. My ex used to give me so much shit about that— always said I lived like a tornado had a baby with a landfill.”
Ex.
Not girlfriend. Not boyfriend. Just... ex.
The word, so small and insignificant but impossible to ignore. Zanka felt something cold settle in his chest, spreading through his veins like ice cold water.
His mother’s voice rose unbidden in his mind: There will be many temptations. Guard your heart. The flesh is weak, corrupted, always pulling toward sin. Toward base things. Unnatural things. You’ll know them by their fruits— by the way they speak, the way they move through the world without shame, without proper fear of judgment.
“I can help you bring your things in,” Zanka offered, because that was the right thing to do. The polite thing. The thing a good person would do.
“Yeah? Sweet.” Jabber was already heading back towards the door. “Got a couple more bags in the car. My dad was gonna help but I told him I got it. Less awkward that way, you know? Parents get all weird and emotional about this shit. Like, I get it, first time away and whatever, but I’m literally an hour away. It’s not like I’m moving to another country.” He explained, using his hands to exaggerate certain details as he walked down the hallway.
Zanka followed him down the hallway, past open doors where other students were settling in with music playing and voices overlapping in waves of laughter and excitement.
Jabber moved through it all like he belonged, like he’d lived here for years, nodding at strangers, calling out “hey, nice room” to someone he had never met, whistling something under his breath that might have been a song or might have just been noise for the sake of noise.
The car park was bathed in golden hour light, everything touched with amber and honey, the kind of light that made even ordinary things look precious.
Jabber’s car was easy to spot— an old car, which Zanka had no idea what the model was, with a bumper sticker that said ‘I brake for cryptids’ and a bird decal of a crow or maybe a raven, something dark and clever-looking with knowing eyes.
As they approached, a larger bird— an actual crow, its feathers glossy black in the fading light— landed on the hood with a sharp caw before taking flight again, wings cutting through the air.
“Here.” Jabber handed him a box that rattled with what sounded like glassware, something fragile. “Careful with that one. Lab equipment. Would really suck to break it before I even got to use it. Took me forever to convince my advisor to let me keep some of this stuff in the dorm.”
“Lab equipment?” Zanka asked, adjusting his grip.
“Yeah, man. Chem major. Figured I’d bring some of my own stuff, ya know? The school labs are fine but they’re soo boring about what you can and can’t do.” Jabber grabbed two more bags, slinging them over his shoulders.
“I mean who doesn’t love mixing chemicals and shit? It’s like cooking but with more explosions! Way more fun. My ex used to say I had a death wish, but l think that’s a little dramatic. I’m careful. Mostly.” Jabber continued, chatting animatedly whilst walking back to the building.
There it was again.
Ex.
He wanted to ask— what kind of person, what gender, what pronouns— but the words were stuck in his throat.
His mother’s warnings echoed louder: You’ll know them. They won’t hide what they are. The world celebrates it now, calls it pride, calls it love, but we know the truth. We know what God says. And you must not be deceived, no matter how friendly they seem, no matter how normal they try to make it appear.
“What’s your major?” Jabber asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Law.”
“Oh.” Jabber made a face, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Sounds boring as hell. But hey, if that’s what you’re into, good for you. Someone’s gotta do it, right?”
Zanka’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, “It’s a respectable field.”
“Sure, sure.” Jabber’s tone was light. Unbothered, like he was commenting on the weather rather than dismissing Zanka’s entire future.
“Just seems like a lot of reading about what you can’t do instead of what you can, you know? Like, here’s a thousand rules and if you break any of them, major consequences. Seems exhausting.” He glanced back, grinning. “But I guess somebody’s gotta keep the rest of us in line, right? Make sure we don’t blow ourselves up or whatever.”
They made two more trips, and Jabber talked the entire time— about his gap year traveling through South America, about sleeping in hostels and on beaches, about how he emailed the Chemistry Professor at least three times since induction about reaction mechanisms.
He talked about some bird sanctuary he’d volunteered at where they rehabilitated injured raptors, “Ya ever seen a hawk up close? Like, reeal close? They’re fucking magnificent. Pure predators. This one red-tailed they brought in, someone had shot it— can you believe that? Shot a fucking hawk! But when it finally healed enough to fly again, watching it take off…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he reminisced. “It was like watching something holy, ya know? Like witnessing a resurrection or sumn.”
The word made Zanka’s skin prickle.
Holy.
Coming from Jabber’s mouth, so casual. Applied to a bird instead of to God, to scriptures, to the things that were supposed to be holy.
It felt wrong, like blasphemy, but also—
Also like maybe Jabber understood something about holiness that Zanka had never been taught to recognize.
Back in the room, Jabber unpacked with the same chaotic energy he seemed to approach everything with— clothes tossed into drawers without folding, wrinkled and inside. Books stacked sideways and upside down in whatever order they landed, a mix of chemistry textbooks and philosophy and what looked like poetry?
A poster of the periodic table went up on the wall above his bed, held in place with tape that wasn't quite straight. Next to it, a small photograph of a hawk mid-flight, wings catching light, suspended against an impossibly blue sky.
Zanka watched as Jabber put it up, triumphantly.
“Man. I miss that guy.” He said, jumping not so gracefully off his bed, hands on his hips as he looked back at the picture.
Zanka blinked. Then looked at Jabber and then back at the photo, “Did ya— Did ya take that picture?”
Jabber spun on his feet to face Zanka, a massive grin splayed across his face. “Sure did! It was the one from the bird sanctuary.”
Zanka nodded slowly.
Maybe there was more to Jabber than he first thought.
“You religious?” Jabber asked suddenly, nodding toward the small cross placed on the desk.
Zanka’s hand moved to it instinctively, fingers curling around the metal. “Yes.”
"Cool, cool. My grandma was super Catholic. Made me go to mass whenever I visited.” He grinned, fondness lacing his voice. “I don’t mind it. The music’s pretty sick. And the ritual of it all, ya know? There’s something like cool about tradition, about doing the same thing people have done for like centuries. And hey, if there’s a God, seems like a waste not to hedge your bets, right? Pascal’s wager and all that.”
The casual way he said it— like faith was something you could shrug on or off, like it wasn’t the entire basis of a life— made Zanka’s throat tight.
Guard your heart. The secular environment will corrupt you. They’ll make it seem reasonable, make it seem like faith is just one option among many, but that’s how they pull you away. That’s how the devil works— not with obvious evil, but with friendly faces and logical arguments and the slow erosion of certainty.
“Hmm, ‘M gonna order food,” Jabber announced, already pulling out his phone, scrolling through what looked like a dozen different delivery apps. “Ya want something? Thai? Pizza? There’s this amazing Korean place that delivers. Oh, and Indian— you like Indian food? There’s a place that does this vindaloo that’ll change your life forreal.”
“No, thank ya. I’ll prepare something in the communal kitchen.”
“Suit yourself.” Jabber flopped onto his bed, the springs squeaking in protest, scrolling with the focused attention of someone making the most important decision in their life. “More for me. Though seriously, if ya change your mind, let me know! I always order too much anyway.”
Zanka nodded and gathered his things— rice already measured out, vegetables pre-cut and portioned, chicken breast he’d spent Sunday cutting into identical pieces.
The communal kitchen was empty, fluorescent lights humming overhead in that particular frequency that made everything feel sterile and slightly unreal, like a hospital.
He cooked methodically, following the routine he’d established years ago. Measured portions. Balanced nutrition. Clean. Controlled. Appropriate. Exactly what his body needed and nothing it didn’t.
When he returned, Jabber was sprawled across his bed with containers of Thai food spread around him.
The smell hit Zanka immediately— rich, warm in a way that seemed to fill more than just the physical space. Peanut sauce and lime and coconut milk and something sweet and spicy all at once, curry and basil and garlic, scents of places and traditions he’d never been allowed to explore.
It made his mouth water.
His own meal sat neatly in its tupperware. Plain grilled chicken, steamed broccoli, brown rice. It was nutritious.
“Ya sure you don’t want some?” Jabber held up a container. “This pad thai is insane.”
“I’m sure. Thanks.”
Jabber shrugged, twirling the noodles around his fork with obvious glee.
Zanka forced himself to focus on his own food. Hydrated appropriately. It was fine. It was good for him. It was—
He couldn’t stop watching Jabber’s meal. The way the sauce caught the light. The steam rising from it, curling toward the ceiling, like—
Like birds taking flight.
After dinner, Zanka washed his container. Dried it. Put it away. Brushed his teeth for exactly two minutes. Changed into his sleep clothes in the bathroom because changing in the room felt too exposed, too vulnerable.
When he came back, Jabber was already in bed, scrolling through his phone with earbuds in. He glanced up, and pulled one out. “Night, man.”
“Goodnight.” Zanka mumbled, nodding in his direction.
Zanka knelt beside his bed.
The harsh floorboards were cold against his knees. He folded his hands, closed his eyes, and began to pray. The familiar words finding him easily.
Thank you for this day. Thank you for your provision. Please guide me. Please guard me. Please help me to honor you in all things. Please help me to be good. Please help me to be pure. Please help me—
Please.
Please.
He opened his eyes. The cross on his desk caught the light from the streetlamp outside. Beyond the window, the sky was fully dark now, stars barely visible through the light pollution.
No birds.
Zanka closed the curtain, with more force than he intended, and then climbed into bed. The springs creaked under his weight.
Across the room, Jabber had already fallen asleep, one arm flung over his head, breathing deep and even.
Free, even in sleep.
The ache in Zanka’s chest seemed to worsen.
He’d prayed.
He’d done everything right.
Eaten the right food, said the right words, maintained the right boundaries. He’d been good. He’d been disciplined.
The feeling still remained.
Maybe he hadn’t prayed hard enough.
Maybe he needed to try harder.
Maybe if he just—
Outside, somewhere in the dark, a bird called out.
Zanka closed his eyes and willed himself not to listen.
6:00 AM.
Zanka’s body jolted awake violently, before his mind fully caught up, like an automatic reaction to the alarm’s mechanical shriek.
Across the room, Jabber groaned. “Dude. Dude. Turn that shit off.”
“Sorry,” Zanka mumbled, his hand fumbled for his phone, eyes still blurred with sleep. The mechanical noise eventually silenced.
“Thanks,” Jabber mumbled, already sinking back into his pillow again, half asleep.
Zanka stood up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He made his way to the bathroom. The routine. Cold water on his face, brushing his teeth, hair brushed until it lay like it was supposed to.
When he returned to the room, early morning light was seeping through the window, grey and tentative. It fell across Jabber’s bed, illuminating what could only be described as a catastrophe of limbs.
Jabber had somehow managed to take up more space than the twin bed actually contained. One arm dangled off the edge, fingers nearly brushing the desk, the other was flung above his head. His legs were tangled in sheets that had mostly given up. The bed looked uncomfortably small beneath him, like it was trying and failing to contain something too large, too alive, too much.
Zanka blinked.
He padded closer without meaning to.
He told himself he was just trying to see what time it was on Jabber’s phone. Or checking if his roommate was— what? Breathing? Obviously he was breathing. The rise and fall of his chest was right there, steady and deep and—
Stop.
But he didn’t
The piercings across Jabber’s skin caught the weak morning light, shimmering a little and pulling Zanka closer. Two in Jabber’s eyebrow, three climbing up the shell of his ear, two on the bridge of his nose.
They suited him in a way Zanka couldn’t explain, complementing his skin, making him look both dangerous and somehow softer at the same time. His locs had escaped their bun overnight, a few falling forward to frame his face. There were smudges of eyeliner around his eyes, giving him a disheveled, almost vulnerable appearance that made Zanka’s throat feel tight.
Jabber’s eyelashes fluttered.
Long. Unfairly long.
And there, visible now that Jabber was wearing a tank-top to sleep, and his chain had shifted— the tattoo. Zanka had glimpsed it yesterday but now he could see it clearly. A bird on his collarbone, wings spread mid-flight, rendered in delicate linework that seemed impossibly fragile against Jabber’s skin.
So different from everything else about him— his loud laugh, his careless confidence, the way he took up space without a second thought— and yet somehow exactly the same.
Free.
Uncontained.
Beautiful in a way that made Zanka’s chest ache.
Flee from sexual immorality
The verse appeared in his mind, unpromptedly.
Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.
But he wasn’t—
This wasn’t—
He was just looking. Just noticing. That wasn’t the same as wanting. That wasn’t—
His hand reached out.
He didn’t mean for it. Didn’t give it permission. But it was, moving through the little space between them like it had its own will, fingers outstretched towards the bird on Jabber’s collarbone, wanting to trace the lines, wanting to feel if the ink was raised, wanting to—
One of Jabber’s eyes opened.
Just slightly. Just enough.
The corner of Jabber’s mouth lifted into a lop-sided, knowing smirk. “Whatcha looking at?”
Zanka jerked back like he’d been burned. His hand snapped to his side. Heat flooded his face— shame, hot and immediate, crawling up his neck. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I was just—“
“Relax.” Jabber murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. He sat up, slowly as he tilted his head to the side, more locs falling loose from his bun. His eyes scanned across Zanka’s face in a way that made him look too aware, pink irises watching, examining him intently. “You didn’t have to stop. I don’t mind.”
The world seemed to stop, the air suddenly feeling thick with tension.
Zanka’s entire body went rigid.
His mind scrambled for something, anything, appropriate to say. Something that would explain what he was doing, but even he didn’t know what that exactly was. Something that would rebuild the boundaries that had just become dangerously blurred.
“I wasn’t—”His voice came out too sharp, too defensive. “I was just lookin’ at yer tattoo. That’s all. It was visible. I noticed it. That’s a completely normal observation.”
“Sure.” Jabber’s grin only seemed to widen. “Normal observation. Got it.”
“Do ya have lectures today?” The words came tumbling out of Zanka’s mouth, too fast, too abrupt.
He had to change the subject, to something, to anything.
Jabber blinked, clearly amused, but he went along with it. He sat up properly, reaching for his phone on the desk. “Lemme check.” He murmured whilst yawning, and scrolled, squinting at the screen. “Yeah, intro lecture at nine, I think. Chemistry fundamentals or whatever.”
He looked up. “Hey, give me your number.”
Zanka’s brain short-circuited. “What?”
Jabber laughed— that same delighted sound from yesterday, like wind chimes, soft and light. “So we can send each other our schedules, man. Figure out when we’re both gonna be in the room, when it’s free, all that. Roommate logistics shit.”
“Oh.” Zanka’s laugh came out strained, awkward, too high. “Right. Yes. That makes sense.” He fumbled for his phone, hands suddenly clumsy and clammy, and held it out.
Jabber took it, fingers brushing Zanka’s for half a second. Zanka could feel that same burning feeling where their skin had been in contact, as if he was being tainted.
Though, Jabber didn’t seem to notice and began to type quickly, tongue slightly hung out his lips at the corner in concentration, then handed it back.
Zanka took his phone and then glanced at the contact.
Jabber ;)
The winking emoji sat there, casual and entirely too knowing.
Zanka’s thumb moved before he could stop it, deleting the emoji and typing instead: Roommate.
Better. Appropriate.
As he saved the contact, a few notifications slid down from the top of his screen. Two messages from last night that he’d missed.
One from Riyo:
Riyo: how’s the first night going?? Is ur roommate cool?
Another from Enjin: a meme about college roommate horror stories, followed by
Enjin: lmaooo but fr tho hows ur situation? U stuck with some weirdo?
Zanka typed back quickly.
To Riyo: Fine. Roommate seems nice.
To Enjin: It’s fine. He’s normal.
Normal. Right.
He pulled up Jabber’s contact in his messages and sent his schedule.“I have an intro lecture at seven-thirty,” he said aloud, looking up. “Then a tutorial at nine-thirty. A few other lectures throughout the day. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”
Jabber hummed along in response “Damn. Sounds rough, especially for the first day.”
Zanka sighed, that familiar weight settling over him.“I’ll manage.”
“I bet you will.” Jabber flopped back down onto his bed, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders. “Am gonna catch a little more sleep before my nine o’clock. Early mornings are not my thing.”
“Okay.”
Zanka gathered his clothes— a pair of grey slacks, a button-down shirt and a dark blue jumper. He changed in the bathroom again, door locked. When he looked in the mirror this time, he looked exactly like what he was supposed to be: a serious student. Someone with a future. Someone with discipline and direction and purpose.
Someone who doesn't reach out to trace tattoos on sleeping roommates.
Zanka’s breakfast was relatively quick and easy— oatmeal with a measured portion of berries, eaten standing up in the communal kitchen while he reviewed his notes.
The reading for his first lecture wasn’t too dense. Constitutional law fundamentals. He’d already done most of it over the summer and it was just a review, so he should be fine.
He could do this.
He was good at this.
But that feeling was building anyway— the one that lived in his chest, heavy and cold. The one that whispered he wasn’t enough, would never be enough, was somehow failing even when he did everything right. That he would always be average.
...
7:00 AM came too quickly.
Zanka grabbed his bag from the room— the one his sister had given him as a graduation present.
As he grabbed the bag, Zanka glanced over to the opposite end of the room. Jabber was still asleep, one arm thrown over his face now, chest rising and falling in that same steady rhythm. The bird on his collarbone was now hidden beneath his arm.
Zanka looked at him for one more second.
Then two.
Then three.
Flee from sexual immorality
Zanka blinked his eyes shut, pulling them away from Jabber and instantly turned on his heels.
The walk to the lecture hall was chilly, the morning air biting at Zanka’s exposed skin. Students moved past him in clusters, laughing, chatting, already forming groups. He walked alone, bag strap digging into his shoulder, steps measured.
The law building was relatively large, looming over the entire area. Despite the size of the building, Zanka found the lecture hall easily enough. It was massive with tiered seating, rows upon rows of desks already filled with students. He chose a seat near the middle— not too eager at the front, not too disengaged at the back.
Around him, conversations buzzed.
A girl to his left was discussing an internship she’d secured before even starting. Two guys behind him were debating a recent Supreme Court ruling with the kind of casual confidence that made Zanka’s stomach twist. Everyone seemed to already know something, to already be someone.
And then there was him.
Average.
An average joe surrounded by geniuses.
The professor entered— a tall woman with sharp eyes and sharper heels that clicked against the floor like a gavel. She introduced herself briskly, no nonsense, and launched into the module outline.
Constitutional law. Foundations of legal systems. The separation of powers. Judicial review.
Zanka’s fingers moved across his laptop, typing as detailed and careful notes as he could.
He’d read all of this already.
But hearing it spoken aloud in this room, surrounded by people who seemed to breathe this material, made it feel alien.
Like he was an imposter sitting in a seat meant for someone smarter.
The lecture dragged on.
The Professor’s voice was steady, clear, and Zanka tried to focus, tried to care, but all he could feel was the weight pressing down on his chest.
The fact that he was supposed to want this.
That this was the right path.
The one his parents had sacrificed for.
The one that he needed to go down.
But God, he hated it.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and cruel, and Zanka immediately shoved it down.
No.
He didn’t hate it. He was just tired. Anxious. First-day nerves. That’s all.
He forced himself to sit straighter, to nod along when the professor made a point, to look at least somewhat engaged.
By the time the lecture ended, his hand ached from being clenched.
...
The break he had was short.
Zanka found one of the campus cafes, ordered a black coffee and tried to convince himself he liked it. He sat at a table in the corner, with his laptop open, reviewing his notes from the first lecture.
There weren’t many.
It had been mostly an introduction, module outline, all the boring logistics. But he read them anyway, over and over, as if repetition would make them stick, would make them mean something.
His tutorial was next.
It was in a smaller room that had a circular seating arrangement. Twelve students, including him. The tutor— a young man named Mr. Kozume, probably only a few years older than them— smiled warmly and introduced himself.
“Alright, let’s start with some icebreakers. Pair up, chat for five minutes, then introduce your partner to the group.”
Zanka’s stomach sank.
He was paired with a girl named Amara— bright smile, confident handshake, already mentioning her gap year volunteering abroad. Zanka nodded along, asked the right questions, smiled at the right moments.
When it was his turn to be introduced, Amara said, “This is Zanka. He’s interested in constitutional law and played violin in high school!”
The group nodded approvingly.
Zanka smiled.
Perfect.
The tutorial continued with discussions— hypothetical legal scenarios, debates about certain interpretations. Zanka participated. He always participated. His answers were articulated, well-structured, confident.
But inside, he could feel it building.
That bitterness on his tongue, sharp and metallic. The urge to snap, to scream, to tell them all that he didn’t care, that none of this mattered, that he was drowning and no one could see.
His jaw ached from clenching. His nails dug small crescents into his palms beneath the desk.
But he didn’t
He smiled. Nodded. Contributed thoughtfully.
And of course, played his role perfectly.
...
The rest of the day was a blur.
Another lecture— longer this time, focusing into legal theory and methodology. The professor droned on for what felt like hours.
Zanka took notes. His hand cramped. He ignored it.
Lunch was a supermarket sandwich— chicken and lettuce, tasteless— and a berry smoothie that was too sweet. Whilst he ate, he sat alone in the library, laptop open, scanning through the new resources they’d been given.
Reading lists. Case studies. Academic journals.
It all felt like too much and not enough at the same time.
His final lecture of the day was the worst.
Legal reasoning and application. The professor— an older man with a condescending tone— kept asking them to apply principles to hypothetical cases.
“Simple stuff”, he said. Foundational.
Zanka understood the theory. He knew what the professor was saying. But every time he tried to apply it, his mind went blank. His thoughts slipped away the more he tried to focus.
His leg bounced under the desk, frantic, uncontrollable.
The person next to him, a guy with glasses and a concerned expression, glanced over, clearly noticing.
Zanka bit down on the inside of his mouth, hard, until he tasted blood. The metal taste filled into his tongue, making it even harder to concentrate.
His fists clenched in his lap, shaking.
He could not wait for this day to be over.
...
When it finally was, Zanka walked back to the dorm in a daze, his bag heavy, his chest heavier.
The room was empty when he arrived. Jabber was nowhere to be seen.
Zanka stood in the doorway for a moment, just breathing. His hands were still shaking— that familiar tremor that reminded him of finals, of entrance exams, of every moment he’d ever felt like he was failing.
His eyes drifted to the violin case tucked under his desk, half-hidden behind a box.
He needed this.
Zanka pulled the case out carefully, set it on his bed, and opened it. The violin rested inside, polished wood gleaming faintly in the afternoon light. He lifted it and tucked the violin under his chin, feeling the wood against his jaw, the cool strings beneath his fingertips. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing. Letting the weight of the instrument settle into his body.
And then he drew the bow across the strings.
The first note was soft. Tentative. A whisper of sound that barely filled the room.
He played a simple scale. The notes bled into one another, smooth and careful.
But it wasn’t enough.
His bow pressed harder. The melody shifted, grew sharper. More insistent.
Faster.
He played the same phrase over and over— a repeating motif that climbed and fell and climbed again, never resolving. It was restless, agitated, like something clawing its way out of a cage.
His fingers flew across the fingerboard, muscle memory taking over. The bow scraped and sang, and the sound filled the small room, raw and alive.
This was where he could be free.
Here, in the space between the notes, he didn’t have to be composed. Didn’t have to smile. Didn’t have to pretend he was fine, that he was enough, that he wasn’t suffocating beneath the weight of everyone’s expectations.
The music poured out of him, as if he was confessing.
Frustration— for the way his mind had gone blank during that final lecture, the way he’d felt so stupid even though he understood the theory.
Anger— at himself, at the path he was on, at the fact that he couldn’t even admit he hated it.
Emptiness— that hollow feeling in his chest, like something vital had been carved out and he was just going through the normal human motions, waiting for someone to notice he was already gone.
Disgust— at the way he’d stared at Jabber that morning, at the thoughts he couldn’t control, at the person he was becoming when he’s spent his whole life trying to be good.
All of it spilled into the music.
His hands burned. The strings bit into his fingertips, leaving angry red marks. His bow arm ached, muscles screaming in protest.
But, he didn’t stop.
The melody grew wilder, more desperate. He played like he was trying to rid himself of it all. Like if he could just get it out, make it into sound and abandon it into the air, he might be able to breathe again.
His entire body moved with the music. His chest rose and fell with each movement. His shoulders swayed. The bow sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and violent and precise.
There was something almost holy about it. The way the music consumed him. The way it demanded everything and gave nothing back except this—
The permission to feel.
Outside the window, a bird had perched on the small ledge— watching him intently with dark, unblinking eyes. Like a witness.
Zanka didn’t notice.
He didn’t notice when the door opened, either.
Didn’t notice Jabber stepping inside, stopping mid-step, bag slung over one shoulder, lips parting in surprise.
Didn’t notice the way Jabber’s expression shifted— shock melting into something softer, something almost reverent, like he was watching something sacred.
Zanka’s eyes were closed.
His face was tight with concentration, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. There was something raw in his expression, something unguarded and painfully honest.
The sound was almost violent with the intensity. Each note was made with force, with desperation.
And yet there was beauty in it. Aching and desperate beauty.
The melody climbed higher, trembling on the edge of breaking.
And then, finally, it resolved.
The last note echoed in the room before fading into silence.
Zanka’s chest heaved. His hands were shaking. Sweat clung to his temples.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing.
And then his eyes fluttered open.
And he saw him.
Jabber.
Standing just inside the doorway, pink eyes wide, lips parted slightly.
Zanka froze.
The violin was still tucked under his chin, bow held loose in his trembling hand. He felt utterly exposed. Like Jabber had walked in on him doing something private, something he wasn’t supposed to see.
His mouth opened, but it was dry. No words came.
Jabber smiled— slow, genuine, almost awed. “Bro. That was sick.”
Zanka blinked.
“I knew you were talented, man, but that—” Jabber shook his head, stepping further into the room, setting his bag down on his bed. “That was insane. Like, actually crazy. I didn’t know violins could sound like that.”
Zanka’s grip on the violin tightened. He tried to speak, to say something, anything, but his throat felt tight. Constricted.
“Seriously, that was like my own private concert. I feel honored.” Jabber grinned, his whole face lighting up. “Do you always play like that? 'Cause if you do, I might have to start charging people to sit in here.”
Zanka just stared at him.
His heart was racing. His hands were still shaking. He felt seen in a way that made his skin crawl, made him want to shrink back into himself and disappear.
The last time he’d let himself be like this— open, vulnerable, feeling— he’d been told to shut it away. That boys didn’t cry. That he needed to control himself. That emotions were weakness, indulgence, sin.
Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.
But his mind felt anything but renewed. It felt fractured. Chaotic. Wrong.
“I—” Zanka began, his voice coming out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t realise you’d be back. I should’ve—”
“Nah, man, don’t apologize.” Jabber replied, laughing lightly as he waved a hand dismissively. “That was cool as hell. I’m like dead serious. You’ve got a gift.”
A gift.
The word sat heavy in Zanka’s chest, uncomfortable and wrong.
Gifts were supposed to be used for good.
For God’s glory.
Not for this— this purging of everything dark and broken inside him.
Zanka let out a strained laugh, brittle and awkward. “Thanks.”
He turned away quickly, setting the violin back in its case carefully. His hands were still trembling slightly. He could feel Jabber’s eyes on him, watching, and it made his skin prickle with discomfort.
“Do you play a lot?” Jabber asked, flopping onto his bed.
“Sometimes." Zanka mumbled, closing the case, and latching it shut with more force than necessary. “Not really.”
“You should. Like, for real. That was—” Jabber trailed off, then laughed. “I don’t even have the words, man. It was just that good.”
Zanka didn’t respond. He slid the case back under his desk, out of sight, and straightened up.
His chest still felt tight. His hands still shook.
...
The rest of the evening passed in a haze.
Jabber kept talking— about his day, his lectures, some guy in his chemistry class who’d accidentally set his notes on fire during a demonstration— but Zanka barely heard him. He nodded at the right moments, made vague sounds of acknowledgment, but his mind was elsewhere.
He couldn’t stop replaying it.
The way Jabber had looked at him. The way he’d smiled. Like what Zanka had done was something to be proud of, something beautiful, when all Zanka felt was shame.
Shame for letting himself be seen like that. For letting his guard down. For being so reckless with his own vulnerability.
It made him feel sick.
He opened his laptop and buried himself in work. Reviewed the material from each lecture, read ahead in the textbook, organized his notes into neat folders on his laptop.
Anything to stop thinking.
Hours passed.
Jabber eventually shifted on his bed, pulling out one earbud and glancing over at Zanka, who was still hunched over his laptop, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across his face.
“Dude, you’ve been at that for like three hours straight,” Jabber asked, his tone light but persistent. “You good?”
“Fine,” Zanka replied without looking up, continuing to type.
“You sure? 'Cause you look like you’re about to merge with that laptop.”Jabber laughed, sitting up. “Come on, man. Take a break. Your brain’s gonna melt.”
“I’m fine.”
There was a pause. Zanka could feel Jabber’s eyes on him, studying him, and it made his shoulders tense.
“You know,” Jabber continued, his voice having a playful edge, “for someone who just played the most emotional violin solo I’ve ever heard, you’re really good at the whole robot thing. Like, do you have an off switch, or—”
“Jabber.” Zanka’s voice was flat. A warning? Or maybe just exhaustion.
But Jabber didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did and thought pushing would help. “I’m just saying, it’s okay to, like, exist as a human sometimes. You don’t have to be in work mode 24/7. We could watch somethin’, or I don’t know, talk about literally anything that isn’t school—”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re clearly not, though.”Jabber's tone was still light, but there was something underneath it now— genuine concern, maybe, or curiosity. “Like, you’ve been wound up tight since this morning. Is it the lectures? The workload? Or is it—”
“Can you just stop?” The words came out sharper than Zanka intended, but before he could stop them they came tumbling out. “You don’t know anything.”
Jabber blinked, taken aback. “Whoa, okay—”
“I don’t need ya psychoanalysin’ me, okay?” Zanka’s hands began to shake, the familiar feeling building up inside, his chest tight. “I don’t need you— watching me, commenting on everything I do, acting like you know me when you don’t. You don’t know anything about me.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Jabber’s expression shifted— the easy smile fading, replaced by something more guarded. “I was just trying to—”
“I know what you were trying to do.” Zanka’s voice was cold now, almost brittle in its intensity. “But I don’t need it. I don’t need you trying to fix me or whatever this is.”
Jabber stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Zanka’s face. Then he leaned back, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “Alright. Sure man.”
He slid his earbud back in, turning his attention to his phone.
But Zanka could see it— the way Jabber’s jaw was tight, the way his eyes kept flicking back over, lingering just a second too long before darting away. Like he was trying to figure something out. Like he knew Zanka didn’t mean it, or maybe reconsidering their roommate situation.
Zanka’s chest burned with regret immediately. His hands were trembling. He wanted to say something— to apologize, to explain— but the words wouldn’t come. They sat lodged in his throat, heavy and useless.
Instead, he closed his laptop with more force than necessary and stood abruptly. “I’m gonna shower.”
Jabber didn’t respond. Just nodded slightly, eyes still on his phone.
Zanka grabbed his towel and toiletries and went to the bathroom without another word.
Inside, he locked himself in, and turned the water on as hot as it would go. Steam filled the small space, thick and suffocating.
Zanka showered— long, hot, scrubbing his skin until it was red and raw. As if he was trying to purify his very existence. If maybe he scrubbed hard enough, he could rid himself of this overwhelming feeling.
When he looked in the mirror, his eyes were hollow. Dark circles beneath them, despite the fact he slept for exactly 8 hours last night. He looked tired. Exhausted. He looked like a stranger in his own body.
After finishing up, he climbed into bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling.
The darkness pressed in around him, heavy and suffocating.
Tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.