It's late when I push open the door to room 312. The kind of late where the hallways are empty and your footsteps echo and every sound feels louder than it should be.
But the light is on.
Rachel's here.
She's lying on her bed, wrapped in that ratty blanket she never washes, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers to questions I can't even guess. Her lips move—mumbling, murmuring, words that slip away before I can catch them. I stand in the doorway for a second, just watching, something cold settling in my chest.
Then I drop my bags and go to her.
"Hey." I crouch beside her bed. "What's going on? Did you drink?"
Her eyes shift toward me. They're glassy, unfocused, but not in the drunk way I'm used to. Something else.
"No," she says. Her voice is thin. "Head hurts."
I wait.
"Can you—" She swallows. "My bag. Pills."
The Hermès bag is on her desk, orange and obscene against the cheap wood. I grab it, dig through the usual chaos—lipsticks, receipts, a crumpled tissue, more lipsticks—until I find a bottle.
Empty.
"Rachel." I hold it up. "There's nothing here."
She curses. Softly, under her breath, but I hear it. Then: "Fine. I'll deal."
I look at her properly now. Her face is flushed—too red, the kind of red that comes from fever, not from makeup. Her whole body trembles under that blanket, fine tremors I can feel through the mattress.
"You need water," I say.
"Wine." Her eyes find mine. "Just get me wine."
I put my hand on her forehead. Burning.
"You're sick." I don't know why I state the obvious. "You have a fever. Wine will make it worse."
She just stares at me.
I sigh. "I have Tylenol in the kitchen. Wait here."
I find the pills, grab a glass of water, come back. She hasn't moved. I help her sit up—she's heavier than she looks, dead weight—and watch her swallow. Her sleeve falls back as she lifts the glass.
I see it.
Fresh cuts. On her left arm. Red and raw, not yet scarred, not yet hidden.
"Rachel." My voice comes out smaller than I meant. "What happened?"
She pulls her sleeve down. Slow. Deliberate. "Nothing. It'll heal."
I want to push. I want to shake her and ask what is wrong with you, why do you do this, who hurt you, who keeps hurting you—but she's trembling, burning up, staring at nothing, and I don't know if she'd even answer.
So I just sit there. And wait.
"Cold."
Her voice is a whisper. I lean closer.
"So cold. Even with the blanket." She pulls it tighter, but the shivering doesn't stop. "I'm so cold, Hannah."
I hesitate. Then: "Do you want me to call Alex?"
The words hang in the air. Alex, her boyfriend. Alex, who barely looked at her that night. Alex, who seems to exist in a different orbit entirely.
Rachel laughs. It's not a nice sound.
"No."
"I just thought—"
"No." She cuts me off. "I don't want him here. I just want—" She stops. Shakes her head. "Time. I want time."
I don't know what that means.
I stand up to go to the bathroom—to wash my face, to breathe, to figure out what I'm supposed to do—and then her hand catches my wrist.
She's out of bed. I don't know how. One second she's under the blanket, the next she's pressed against me, her arms around my waist, her face buried in my shoulder. Her body is on fire—I can feel the heat through my shirt, through her clothes, through everything.
"Cold," she murmurs into my shoulder. "So cold."
I stand there frozen. Then, slowly, I bring my arms around her.
"I'm here," I say. "I'm not going anywhere."
She doesn't respond. Just shakes against me, and I don't know if it's the fever or something else.
"You need a doctor," I say quietly.
"No." The word is sharp, sudden. She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wild. "I don't trust them. I don't trust anyone. Just—" She sways. "Wine. Give me wine."
"You're burning up. You need—"
"I need you to stay." Her voice breaks on the last word. "That's all. Just stay."
I hold her tighter.
We stand like that for a long time. Her weight against me, my arms around her, the room silent except for her breathing and the distant hum of the radiator.
Then, into my shoulder: "Do you think there's a heaven?"
The question is so quiet I almost miss it.
"What?"
"Heaven." She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her face is flushed, her eyes too bright. "After people die. Do they go somewhere?"
I don't know how to answer. I'm not religious. I never have been. But she's looking at me like I hold the keys to something, like my answer matters.
"I don't know," I say slowly. "But I think... if there's a hell, there has to be a heaven, right? They come as a pair."
She nods like that makes sense.
"I want to be an angel." Her voice is dreamy now, distant. "Angels don't need wine. Angels are just... happy. All the time."
My throat tightens.
"I'm so jealous of you, Hannah." She's looking at me with those fever-bright eyes. "If I could have your life—if I could just be you—I'd give up everything. All of it."
I shake my head. "It's not that simple. I have secrets too. Things you wouldn't want to carry."
She doesn't ask what they are. Just keeps looking at me, and I wonder if she's even hearing me at all.
"You have everything," I hear myself say. "Your family loves you. You have money. You have Alex—someone everyone looks at and wants. Isn't that enough?"
She snorts. Actually snorts.
"I don't love him." Her voice is clearer now, sharper. "No one loves Alex. He's arrogant. Mean. Impossible." She pauses. "And he's not even really my boyfriend."
I blink. "What?"
"We have an agreement." She waves a hand vaguely. "A contract. I can't tell you the details, but—when the time's up, we're done. Over. Pretend over."
I stare at her. "Why? Why would you do that?"
"Because it works." She shrugs like this is normal. Like contracts and fake relationships are just part of life. "He gets his inheritance. I get my freedom."
"That doesn't make sense." I'm shaking my head. "A contract isn't freedom. It's the opposite."
She just looks at me. "Don't ask. Please."
Silence.
Then: "Anyway. He doesn't love me." Her voice is flat. "He loves someone else."
Something cold runs down my spine. "Who?"
Her face shifts. The corner of her mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost not. Then she reaches out. Pokes me. Right in the chest.
I feel heat flood my face.
"What?"
"I saw him." She's watching me now, really watching. "We were in his car once. Outside that restaurant you work at. And he was just... staring. At you. Through the window. The way you move, the way you carry trays, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're concentrating." She pauses. "I've never seen him look at anyone like that."
"That's—" I step back. "You're delirious. The fever. You don't know what you're—"
"I know what I saw."
I reach out and touch her forehead. Still burning. "You're hallucinating. Alex doesn't—he wouldn't—I'm not—"
She just looks at me with those too-bright eyes.
I guide her back to bed. She goes without fighting, sinking into the mattress like a stone into water. Her eyes flutter closed, but her lips keep moving—words, fragments, pieces of something I can't assemble.
I pull the blanket up to her chin. Stand there for a moment, watching her breathe.
Then I go to the bathroom.
The mirror shows me what I expected: tired eyes, flushed cheeks, hair escaping from its ponytail. I look the same as always. Just me. Just Hannah.
He loves someone else.
I splash cold water on my face.
The way you move. The way you carry trays.
I dry off with a towel that's seen better days.
I've never seen him look at anyone like that.
I set the towel down and look at myself again. Same girl. Same face. Nothing special.
I walk back into the room. Rachel is asleep now—really asleep, her breathing slow and even. The fever's still there, I can see it in the flush on her cheeks, but she's quiet. Peaceful, almost.
I check my phone. Past midnight.
Outside the window, the wind has picked up. It howls around the corners of the building, rattling the glass, and I think about secrets. About the ones Rachel carries, the ones I carry, the ones the wind might be trying to tear away.