Chapter Text
Sprout hated the cold.
He hated the way it slipped beneath his scarf like it had fingers. He hated the way it bit at the tips of his ears and turned his nose pink and made every breath feel like something sharp. He hated how it made people hurry, shoulders hunched and heads down, like life had become something to survive instead of something to enjoy.
Most of all, he hated that Gardenview University, the most prestigious in the nation, had decided to exist somewhere like this.
The second the airport doors slid open, Sprout stopped dead. Cold air attacked him like it was waiting for a chance to make his life even more unbearable.
He stood there for a moment with one hand wrapped around the handle of hit suitcase, staring out at the gray sky, the damp pavement, and the little clouds of breath puffing from every person who walked past him -- like they had all accepted the cold as if it didn't bother them.
This, was cruel.
Sprout tightened his pink-and-white scarf around his neck and glared at the automatic doors as if he was considering to run back inside. The scarf was soft, warm, and wrapped so many times around him that it nearly swallowed his chin, but apparently that meant nothing to the weather here. The cold still, annoyingly, found him. It curled around the collar of his white button-up, slid under the edges of his red and pink sweater vest, and made him deeply, personally offended by the concept of fall in Boston, Massachusetts.
A man in a huge puffy jacket brushed past him with two rolling suitcases, hitting Sprout in the back of the ankle in the process.
"'scuse me." He quietly muttered.
Sprout moved exactly half an inch out of the way.
The man glanced back, probably at the sight of some tall, freckled freshman standing in the doorway with the expression of someone on the verge of starting a war with the temperature.
Sprout stared back until the man looked away.
Good.
The cold had not made him friendly.
His phone pocket buzzed in the pocket of his brown pants.
Sprout already knew who it was before he pulled it out. There were only a few people who texted him consistently, and only one person who texted him like she was emotionally prepared to fly over and kick down a door if he failed to respond within a reasonable amount of time.
He unlocked his phone with one stiff thumb.
Sam 🍠
Landed yet?
Sam 🍠
And don't say "obviously." I'm asking because I care and because you are dramatic.
Sprout stared at the messages, his mouth twitched just slightly. He typed back with cold, annoyed fingers.
Freeloader
Obviously.
Sam 🍠
Unbelievable.
Freeloader
You set yourself up.
Sam 🍠
Did you get your suitcase?
Sprout glanced down at the suitcase behind him. It was red, because Sam had insisted a black suitcase was "too easy to lose" and then had decided red was "on brand." He had not had the energy to ask what that meant. The suitcase was scratched from the flight already and has a little strawberry keychain on the zipper that she had added when he was not looking.
He had considered taking it off, he had not.
Freeloader
Yep.
Sam 🍠
Did anything break?
Freeloader
Yes, Sam. Everything.
Freeloader
Not that I know of.
Sam 🍠
Did YOU break?
Freeloader
Unfortunately no.
Sam 🍠
Sprout.
Sprout sighed, but not from irritation. NEVER from irritation, not to Sam at least. He hunched his shoulders as another freezing gust of wind swept through the airport entrance.
Freeloader
I'm fine.
Freeloader
Cold as shit though.
Sam did not reply right away. Sprout stared at the screen longer than he meant to.
The thing about Sam was that she had a way of noticing when his "I'm fines" meant "I am alive" or "please stop asking before I shut myself in and don't talk to you for two days." She noticed everything, which was part of what made living with her both easy and absolutely impossible.
She was his foster "parent", officially. A single woman with a small house, loud voice, a suspiciously large basement that no normal person should ever have, and a habit of making extra food when she claimed she was not worried about Sprout being too skinny.
Unofficially, she was the first adult who had ever looked at Sprout and seemed to decide he was worth the trouble.
Maybe it was because she was young, only 26 and 7 years older than Sprout, but he didn't quite know what to do with that.
His phone buzzed again.
Sam 🍠
Fine. I believe you enough for now.
Sam 🍠
Please eat something when you get to campus. Real food. Coffee does not count as a meal. Take your meds too.
Freeloader
Coffee has calories
Sam 🍠
So does cardboard. Do not eat cardboard.
Freeloader
There go my dinner plans.
Sam 🍠
I raised a comedian 🥹
Raised.
What an odd word.
Something odd caught in sprouts chest every single time she said it. He had not been with her his whole life. Not even close. There were years before Sam that Sprout tried not to think about unless something dragged them out by the roots. Years of being corrected. Watched. Judged. Years of learning which parts of himself were considered acceptable and which parts made the house colder than any weather could.
Sam had not fixed that. Sprout did not think people could be fixed that easily.
But she had made him breakfast at midnight when he could not sleep. She had called him Sprout without hesitation. She had signed school forms with calm hands and asked if he wanted his name written a certain way. She had told him that being gay was not a problem, not a phase, not something to pray out of him or hide behind a nicer word.
Just him.
That was all.
A person.
Sprout shoved the phone back into his pocket before he could overthink himself into standing in the airport doorway forever.
He dragged his suitcase outside.
The university shuttle was parked along the curb with GARDENVIEW UNIVERSITY printed on the side in bright green letters. Underneath the name was the school slogan:
GROW WHERE YOU’RE PLANTED.
Sprout stared at it.
“Gross,” he muttered.
The driver, a tired-looking woman in a beanie, checked his student ID and pointed him toward the back of the shuttle. Sprout climbed in, immediately thankful that the heat was blasting hard enough to fog the windows.
Most of the seats were already taken by other students.
Freshmen, probably. It was painfully obvious. There was a specific look to people arriving at college for the first time. Too many bags. Too much nervous energy. Parents calling every five seconds. Students pretending they were not scared while their hands shook around their phones.
Sprout recognized the look because he was actively trying not to have it.
He took a seat near the back, shoved his suitcase between his legs, and leaned his forehead lightly against the window.
Outside, the airport blurred with motion. Cars moved through pickup lanes. People hugged on sidewalks. Someone’s mom cried into a scarf. Someone’s dad took a photo of his kid pretending not to be embarrassed. A girl in a long coat waved both hands at someone through the shuttle window until she nearly dropped her backpack.
Sprout looked away.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass.
He looked tired.
That was the first thing he noticed.
His green hair stuck up in uneven, leaf-like tufts, the red peaking out near his ears and the back of his neck like the color had grown from the roots up. His skin looked a little pale, despite it keeping the warm honey tone it still kept. His eyes were half-lidded, like always, but they carried a certain look of exhaust today.
The flight had not helped. Neither had waking up early. Neither had spending the night before packing, unpacking, repacking, then sitting on his bedroom floor while Sam leaned in the doorway and pretended not to notice he was spiraling.
“You don’t have to be excited,” she had told him.
Sprout had looked up from folding the same sweater three times. “I’m not.”
“I know.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because sometimes people think they’re doing something wrong if they’re scared instead of excited.”
He had hated that she was right.
He hated when she was right in general.
The shuttle lurched forward, pulling away from the airport. A few people cheered softly near the front, like this was the beginning of an adventure.
Sprout shut his eyes.
Gardenview University was supposed to be a fresh start.
That was what everyone kept calling it. Teachers. Counselors. Sam. The brochures with smiling students and unnaturally green lawns. A fresh start, like life was a cutting board you could wipe clean. Like old stains did not sink in.
Sprout did not believe in fresh starts. Especially not from a top university that sucked the lives out of people.
He believed in distance.
Distance was real. Distance could be measured in miles, in plane tickets, in time zones, in how many calls you ignored from numbers you did not save anymore. Names that you didn't remember, voices that you let silently fade away overtime. Distance had weight. Distance had proof.
He was far from his old house.
That mattered.
Sprout opened his eyes.
The city outside had started changing. The flat stretch around the airport gave way to older buildings, narrow streets, and little shops with fogged windows. Coffee places. Bookstores. A laundromat with a flickering sign. A bakery with warm yellow light spilling from the windows.
His gaze caught on the bakery longer than it should have.
Inside, someone was moving behind the counter, sliding trays into a display case. Sprout could not see what they were selling from this distance, but he imagined bread anyway. Real bread. Good bread. The kind that cracked when you tore it open and steamed in the cold air. The kind that made people shut up for a second when they tasted it.
That was what he wanted, what he was here to do. Culinary Arts, to put it into official terms. He wanted flour on his hands. A warm kitchen. Something rising properly because he had measured it right. Something sweet because he chose to make it that way.
Sprout had read it so many times on his acceptance letter that he still saw it when he closed his eyes.
He had gotten in.
He was here.
He was—
His phone buzzed again.
Sam 🍠
Forgot to say; I packed snacks in the front pocket of your suitcase. Don't argue. There's also the good strawberry candies you like, and a whole bunch of Radiohead CDs because your a monster.
Sprout blinked. He looked down at the suitcase, then back at his phone.
Freeloader
You said you were done putting things in my suitcase.
Sam 🍠
I lied.
Freeloader
That's not fair.
Freeloader
Thank you, though.
Sam 🍠
Always, kiddo.
Sprout locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket again. He did not cry, that was important to note. His eyes watered because the shuttle heat was too strong and the window was foggy and he was tired and probably dehydrated. That was all.
He wiped at his face with his sleeve before anyone could look over.
God damnit...he was going to miss Sam...
The shuttle continued toward Gardenview.
By the time the campus came into view, Sprout had convinced himself he was fine again.
Gardenview University looked exactly like the brochures, which annoyed him.
He had been hoping the photos were dramatic lies, edited to make the school seem prettier than it actually was. Instead, the campus appeared through the fog like some old, expensive postcard. Tall brick buildings stood behind black iron gates, their windows glowing warm against the gray afternoon. Ivy climbed the sides of lecture halls. Bare winter trees lined the paths, their branches reaching up like thin hands. Banners hung from lampposts, green and gold and pink, welcoming new students in cheerful letters.
WELCOME TO GARDENVIEW!
WE’RE SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE!
Sprout immediately doubted that.
Students moved everywhere. Some dragged suitcases over stone paths. Some stood with parents near dorm entrances. Some took photos in front of the fountain at the center of campus, where a statue of some founder Sprout did not recognize stared nobly into the distance like he had never once had to fill out financial aid paperwork.
Arthur Walton...or something like that.
The shuttle stopped near a building with wide steps and huge glass doors.
“Student check-in is through there,” the driver called. “Have your IDs ready. Dorm keys, orientation packets, and schedules are inside.”
Everyone stood at once.
Chaos followed.
Backpacks swung. Suitcases bumped ankles. Someone dropped a water bottle. Someone apologized seven times. Sprout waited until the aisle cleared enough to move without getting hit in the face by a pillow.
When he stepped off the shuttle, the cold hit him again.
“Fucking hell dude,” he muttered under his breath.
He adjusted his scarf, grabbed his suitcase, and started toward the check-in building.
The closer he got, the louder everything became.
Voices echoed off the stone steps. Student volunteers in matching green shirts directed traffic with the strained cheer of people who had been awake since six. Parents asked where parking was. Someone yelled a name across the crowd. Someone else laughed too loudly, probably on purpose.
Sprout kept his head down and moved through it.
Inside, the building smelled like floor polish, paper, and coffee. (Mmm...Coffee...)
The check-in tables were arranged alphabetically. A-L on the left, M-Z on the right. Sprout joined the shorter line for S, which was still too long for his liking. He stood behind a guy with three duffel bags and in front of a girl who was whispering frantically into her phone about how she had already lost her student ID.
Sprout had his.
He had checked twelve times.
He pulled it out anyway and checked again.
The photo was terrible. He had expected that. Student ID photos were designed to humble people. His expression in the picture looked like someone had asked him to smile and he had taken it as a threat.
Honestly, accurate.
The line crawled forward.
Sprout watched the check-in workers smile, type, hand over folders, repeat. Smile, type, hand over folders, repeat. One of them had a stack of lanyards. Another had a box of dorm keys in little envelopes. Behind them, orientation leaders carried clipboards and shouted group numbers.
Everything was organized in the frantic way colleges were organized, which meant it looked official until you paid attention for more than five seconds.
When Sprout reached the table, the woman behind it smiled up at him.
“Hi! Welcome to Gardenview. Student ID?”
Sprout handed it over.
She scanned it, then glanced at her laptop. “Perfect. Can I have your full name to confirm?”
Sprout’s fingers tightened around the handle of his suitcase.
There it was.
Small question. Normal question. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cruel.
Still, something in him went still.
“Sprout,” he said.
The woman kept smiling. “Full name, please.”
He hated that. The please made it worse somehow. Like politeness made the blade cleaner.
Sprout looked past her at the rows of envelopes, the welcome packets, the bright university logo printed on everything. He could hear the line moving behind him. He could hear someone laughing near the doors. He could hear his own heartbeat, suddenly louder than it had any right to be.
“Sprout Seedly,” he said.
The name came out stiff.
The woman typed it in.
“Great. You’re checked in. Here’s your orientation packet, your temporary meal card, and your dorm key. You’re in the Rainbow Hall, room 214B. Your orientation group assignment is printed on the green sheet inside.”
Sprout took the folder.
Rainbow Hall. 214B
He had known that already from his student portal, but seeing it printed made it feel more real.
“You’ll want to head to the auditorium in about twenty minutes for the welcome presentation,” the woman continued. “After that, orientation leaders will split everyone into groups.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have any questions?”
Sprout had several.
Why did the campus have to be so cold? Why was everyone so loud? Why was there a welcome banner that said “new sprouts” like it was mocking him? Why did saying his own last name still feel like biting down on foil?
“No.”
“Perfect! Welcome to Gardenview, Sprout.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
He stepped away from the table and moved toward the edge of the lobby, where fewer people were standing. He opened the folder just to give himself something to do.
Inside was a campus map, a student handbook, a schedule, a green sheet with ORIENTATION GROUP C printed at the top, and several flyers for clubs he did not plan to join.
Gardenview Culinary Society.
Campus Theatre Alliance.
Student Wellness Center.
Archaeology Club: Dig Into History!
Paws for Pebble: Therapy Dog Meet-Up.
Sprout stared at the last one.
Therapy dog meet-up?
He looked closer. There was a photo of a small rock-like dog with big eyes and a bandana. Pebble, apparently.
Sprout had no idea what a “rock-like dog” was supposed to mean, but the dog looked pleased with itself.
He put the flyer back in the folder.
His phone buzzed again.
Sam 🍠
Checked in yet?
Freeloader
Yes.
Sam 🍠
Good. Is the dorm nice?
Sprout glanced around the lobby, which was crowded, loud, and smelled like these people never figured out what scented bodywash was used for.
Freeloader
They got my ass stuck in orientation.
Sam 🍠
Yikes. Let me know when you see it.
Freeloader
What like live updates?
Sam 🍠
Yes.
Freeloader
Damn, Sam. What if I'm busy?
Sam 🍠
Then send one word updates.
Freeloader
Fine.
Sam 🍠
Also, remember: you don't have to make friends immediately.
Sprout blinked. He leaned back against a wall, his folder pressed to his chest.
Sam 🍠
You can take your time.
Sam 🍠
But don't decide everyone hates you before they've said hello.
Sprout scowled.
Freeloader
I don't do that.
Sam 🍠
You absolutely do.
Freeloader
I'm blocking you.
Sam 🍠
Tragic. Love you too.
Sprout did not reply.
He stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
Sam said that easily as well. Like it was safe. Like it did not cost her anything.
Sprout had gotten better at answering it out loud, sometimes. On good days. In the kitchen when his hands were busy, or when she said it while leaving for work and did not look back to see if he responded. Text was harder for some reason. Text sat there, waiting. Text could be read again.
He typed:
Freeloader
You're annoying.
Then, after three seconds of staring at it, he added:
Freeloader
Love you.
He sent it before he could delete it or regret it later.
Sam 🍠
🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🍓
Yep...he was already regretting it.
He locked his phone, shoved it away, and pushed off the wall.
The auditorium was easy to find because every sign in the building seemed determined to lead him there. Sprout followed the arrows down a wide hallway lined with framed photos of past graduating classes. Smiling students. Caps and gowns. Arms around each other. Bright futures immortalized behind glass.
He wondered how many of them had arrived feeling like they were carrying something rotten under their skin.
Probably more than the photos suggested.
The auditorium doors were open, and students were already filing in. Sprout chose a seat near the back, far enough from the stage that no one would call on him for anything, but not so far back that he looked like he was trying to escape.
It was a delicate balance.
He set his suitcase beside him, dropped into the seat, and stretched his long legs as much as the cramped row allowed.
The auditorium slowly filled.
A girl with bright hair sat near the front and immediately started talking to the person beside her. A boy in a huge hoodie curled up in his seat like he had no plans to be conscious for the presentation. Someone with sunglasses on top of their head took a selfie with the stage behind them. Two students argued quietly over whether they were in the right room.
Sprout watched all of it with the detached focus of someone studying a room for exits.
Old habit.
He looked for doors. Corners. Gaps in the crowd. Quiet places.
Then he looked for the people most likely to be annoying.
There were many.
The lights dimmed slightly.
A woman stepped onto the stage wearing a green blazer and the kind of smile that suggested she had given this speech every year and still somehow meant it.
“Good afternoon, new students!”
The room replied with scattered cheers.
Sprout did not.
“Welcome to Gardenview University!”
More cheers.
Sprout folded his arms.
The woman introduced herself as Dean something-or-other. Sprout missed the last name because someone two rows ahead dropped their metal water bottle and the sound echoed through the auditorium like a gunshot made of stainless steel.
He flinched before he could stop himself.
No one noticed.
He forced his shoulders down.
The speech continued.
Gardenview was a place of growth. A place of discovery. A place to become who they were meant to be. College would challenge them, shape them, introduce them to lifelong friends and new passions. They were encouraged to try new things, ask for help, step outside their comfort zones, and remember that they belonged here...BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Sprout’s mind drifted in and out.
The dean talked about academic resources. Campus safety. The dining hall. The library. Mental health services. Orientation activities. The importance of community.
Community. What a suspicious word. Community meant people. People meant questions. Questions meant answers he did not want to give.
Where are you from?
Complicated.
What do your parents do?
Nothing I want to talk about.
Are you excited?
No.
Why culinary?
Because a kitchen was the first place I ever felt useful without being afraid.
That answer was too honest, so he would never say it.
The dean’s speech ended with applause. Sprout clapped twice because everyone else did and because he did not feel like making a statement out of silence.
Then orientation leaders began organizing students by group.
“Group A, please meet by the left exit!”
“Group B, front row!”
“Group C, stay seated for just one minute, then head toward the center aisle!”
Sprout glanced at his green sheet.
Group C.
Of course.
He waited while half the auditorium stood and immediately clogged the aisles. The room became a storm of voices, bags, squeaking chairs, and nervous laughter. Sprout stayed seated until his section started to move.
Group C gathered near the center aisle around an orientation leader with a clipboard and a ponytail so tight it looked painful.
“Hi, everyone!” she said brightly. “I’m Shanon, and I’ll be your group leader for the next couple of days. We’re going to start with some quick introductions, then head into our first activity.”
Sprout considered walking directly into the sea.
Unfortunately, there was no sea nearby.
Shanon counted heads, checked names on her clipboard, and started guiding them out of the auditorium.
Sprout followed at the back.
That was where he preferred to be. The back let him see everyone else first. It meant no one could stand behind him without his knowledge. It meant he could leave if he needed to.
The hallway outside was even louder now, packed with groups splitting off in different directions.
Group C moved toward a smaller event room down the hall. The room had circular tables, a projector, and a suspicious number of markers. On one side, someone had set out name tags and index cards.
Sprout’s stomach sank.
Name tags.
Of course there were name tags.
Shanon clapped once. “Okay! Grab a name tag, write your name and major, and then take a seat anywhere. We’ll start with a quick icebreaker.”
Sprout picked up a blank name tag.
He stared at it.
There was a thick black marker on the table.
He wrote:
Sprout
Culinary Arts
That was all. No cute little doodle, no smiley face, just a name. Maybe younger Sprout would have painted the entire Mona Lisa on it if he could, but older Sprout wanted nothing to do with people anymore.
He stuck the name tag to his sweater vest with more force than necessary and chose a chair near the edge of the room.
Students trickled in around him. Some sat together immediately, already forming pairs out of panic. Others hovered awkwardly before committing to chairs. Sprout watched, expression flat, and wondered how soon he could leave without being remembered as the guy who left.
His phone buzzed.
Sam 🍠
How's orientation?
Sprout looked around the room.
A guy covered in ribbons and expensive makeup was writing his name tag in pink glitter pen, someone else in an oversized blue sweater with a bright yellow star on the front was already talking about changing majors, and Shanon was stacking cards with the energy of a person about to force strangers to share their entire life story with each other.
Freeloader
On a scale of 1 to 10 how important is an education for culinary.
Sam 🍠
Yikes. Proud of you for going anyway.
Sprout stared at the message.
Then he put his phone face-down on the table.
Shanon moved to the front of the room. “Okay, Group C! Let’s get started. I know icebreakers can feel a little awkward—”
A collective nervous laugh moved through the room.
Sprout did not laugh.
“—but I promise, everyone here is in the same boat. You’re all new, you’re all figuring things out, and this is a great chance to meet people you might see around campus.”
Sprout looked at the door.
Maya smiled. “Let’s start simple. Name, major, and one thing you’re hoping for this semester.”
Sprout immediately hated the question.
One thing he was hoping for.
What was he supposed to say? Good grades? A decent roommate? To not be called by his last name? To make it through winter without freezing into a dramatic little statue outside Rainbow Hall?
People began answering.
“Hi, I’m Looey, theatre arts, and I’m hoping to get involved with campus productions.”
“Brightney, Language arts, and I’m hoping to join the student paper.”
“Finn, marine biology, and I’m hoping there’s, like, a fishing club or something.”
A few people laughed.
Sprout listened with half an ear.
The answers were normal. Friendly. Safe. Everyone gave the sort of response they were supposed to give, the kind that said, I am excited, I am harmless, please like me.
Then it was his turn.
Several faces turned toward him.
Sprout sat a little straighter.
“Sprout,” he said. “Culinary Arts.”
He stopped.
Shanon waited.
The room waited.
Sprout realized he could not get away with only two-thirds of the answer.
He looked down at the edge of the table.
“I’m, uh, hoping,” he said slowly, “that the kitchen equipment isn’t terrible?”
Silence. Then someone across the circle laughed. Not meanly. Just surprised.
Shanon smiled wider. “Practical! I like it.”
Sprout shrugged. He did not.
The introductions continued.
Sprout let the names pass over him, catching only some of them. There were too many people to remember. Too many majors. Too many hopes. He was not built for this many lives entering his awareness at once.
Still, one thing became clear as the activity went on.
Everyone wanted something.
That should not have surprised him. They were at college. Wanting was practically a requirement. People wanted careers, friends, attention, freedom, reinvention. They wanted to become actors, therapists, archaeologists, journalists, artists, scientists. They wanted to be seen. They wanted to be left alone. They wanted to matter.
Sprout wanted a kitchen.
That was enough for now.
After introductions, Shanon moved them into another activity involving cards with questions on them. Sprout ended up with a card that asked, What is one thing people misunderstand about you?
He stared at it for five full seconds.
Absolutely not.
He flipped it over.
A student beside him leaned over. “What’d you get?”
Sprout slid the blank side closer to himself. “Nothing.”
“Oh.” The student blinked. “Lucky.”
“Very.”
The activity passed. Then another. Then Shanon talked about tomorrow’s schedule and where to meet in the morning. Sprout absorbed only the important pieces: breakfast at eight, campus tour at nine, academic meetings after lunch, do not lose your folder, bring your student ID.
By the time orientation ended for the day, his brain felt like it had been packed with wet flour.
Students lingered in the event room, exchanging numbers and socials. Sprout avoided eye contact so aggressively it became a skill.
He escaped into the hallway with his suitcase and folder clutched tight.
For the first time since landing, he was alone.
Not completely. The building was still full of people. But no one was speaking to him, expecting anything from him, or asking him to summarize his hopes in front of strangers.
Good enough.
Sprout followed the signs toward the exit.
Outside, the evening had turned the campus softer. The gray sky had deepened into blue, and the lights along the paths glowed warm against the cold. Students crossed the quad in clusters. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing music from a speaker. Farther off, bells chimed from a clock tower.
Sprout stopped at the top of the steps.
Gardenview spread out in front of him.
It was strange, seeing it now. Not as a brochure. Not as an acceptance letter. Not as a place he imagined while lying awake in Sam’s house, staring at the ceiling and wondering if leaving would feel like freedom or just a different kind of fear.
It was real.
The paths were real. The buildings were real. The dorm key in his folder was real. The cold was very, unfortunately real.
Sprout pulled his scarf higher around his face.
His phone buzzed.
Sam 🍠
Still alive?
Sprout looked out at the campus. He though about the check-in table, the name, the auditorium full of strangers, the orientation leader asking what he hoped for...
Freeloader
Yes.
Freeloader
It's cold.
Sam 🍠
Wear your scarf.
Sam 🍠
Actually wear it harder, I know you never take that thing off.
Despite himself, Sprout smiled.
It was small. Barely there.
He tucked his phone away, gripped his suitcase, and started down the steps toward Rainbow Hall.
He did not know yet that tomorrow he would meet a girl who talked like every sentence came with three exclamation points.
He did not know he would end up in a group chat with people who would annoy him, confuse him, and somehow become difficult to imagine life without.
He did not know his quiet roommate would become one of the first people to know the truth about his name.
He did not know that somewhere on campus, in a room he had not seen yet, there was a brown-haired boy with warm hands and a soft smile who would someday learn exactly how Sprout liked his tea, how he took criticism, how he went quiet when he was scared, and how he looked when he was trying not to love someone.
For now, there was only the cold.
Sprout breathed out, watched the air cloud in front of him, and kept walking.