Mindy Fowler had been simping over Julian Young for three straight years when she cleared her throat and made the announcement.
"Girls. Big news. I'm done chasing Julian Young!"
The suite went quiet for exactly one second.
"And to celebrate the new me — this Friday, I'm paying for all six of us to do a boudoir shoot. My treat!"
"The two-hundred-a-head package! The photographer's a new friend of mine, and we've got the whole studio booked."
"Everyone comes bare-faced, no makeup. And bring your driver's license — the studio runs everyone through check-in."
The room exploded.
"No way — two hundred a head? That's twelve hundred dollars!"
"Mindy, you're finally free! Welcome back to the land of the living!"
Bree, the girl in the bunk under mine, launched herself across the room to hug her.
"Hold on." Nadia, our unofficial suite leader, sat up on her bed. "Like, sexy boudoir? With hair and makeup?"
"Hair, makeup, wardrobe — all covered!" Mindy beamed. "My friend's studio has the best equipment in the city."
"Oh my God, posing in front of a camera in one of those outfits — I'm blushing just thinking about it."
"This is gonna be like an actual magazine shoot!"
Everyone was cheering.
I sat very still, going cold under my skin.
Because my brain was playing the full three-year highlight reel of Mindy Fowler in love.
She forged sign-in sheets for his lectures. When she got caught, she was the one who got written up.
On his birthday she dropped two hundred into his Venmo, then ate ramen for half a month.
Last year, one text from him — "broke my phone" — and she borrowed from every girl on the floor to send him a thousand bucks. Then lived on instant noodles for two months.
Three years. Every dollar she had went to that man.
And now this person suddenly doesn't chase him anymore?
And suddenly has twelve hundred dollars lying around to treat us all?
Where did the money come from?
And that line — bring your ID, you'll be checked in at the door.
For the record: I'm Jasmine Lin, second-generation Chinese-American, daughter of a mother who thinks identity theft is a bigger threat than any serial killer. She raised me on one rule above all the rest: you don't hand your ID to anyone who isn't the government. I've done photoshoots. No legitimate studio on this planet asks for it at the door.
So I said it.
"Mindy, why does the studio need our licenses?"
Half a beat of silence.
Mindy blinked. "Records. Every legit studio does it."
"I shot with one last year. Nobody asked."
"Theirs is more professional, then." She waved it off, all smiles. "My friend's studio is picky — the photos go up on their platform, so they register your likeness for image rights."
"Up on what platform?"
"God, why are you interrogating me?"
Bree groaned from her bunk. "Jaz, the girl is treating you. For free."
I looked at Mindy. "Something about this is off."
The cheering died completely.
Five heads turned toward me at once.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"She finally gets out of her own way, and you have to rain on it?"
"Seriously. You could find a conspiracy in a bowl of cereal."
Nadia frowned. "If you don't want to go, just say so. Don't ruin it for everyone."
Mindy didn't get mad. Her smile went softer.
"Jaz, I know you're trying to save me money. But I've spent three years feeling like a doormat. Can't I spend big just this once?"
After that, everyone's heart bled for her.
And I became the villain.
I shut my mouth. There is no reasoning with people in that state.
That night I went digging and found a screenshot. One week earlier, Mindy was still sending the guy DoorDash orders with "don't forget to eat" written in the delivery notes.
Simping Monday, reborn by Friday?
The withdrawal was an act.
An act for whose benefit?
The colder this got, the faster I moved. I emailed my professors — stomach bug, I'd be out the rest of the week — and booked the earliest bus home for the next morning.
The booking had just gone through when a DM from Mindy landed.
"Jaz, you HAVE to be there Friday."
"I'm sick. Going home tomorrow."
Her reply was instant.
"What kind of sick? Campus Health can't handle it?"
"Stomach thing. Chronic. They can't treat it here."
"Can't you leave after the shoot Friday? It's two extra days."
"No."
She kept going.
"Come on. The whole point is all six of us."
"And the photographer wants the whole group there for the booking."
I stared at the screen.
The photographer wants everyone present.
A stranger with a camera — why would he care whether one body was missing?
One girl short, one less headache for him.
Unless.
He needed the headcount for some other reason.
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