Callie

Callie's cutting across the main quad when she spots them near the student center, and her brain immediately short-circuits. Oh god. There they are. Her grip tightens on her purse strap as she tries to look casual, like she definitely wasn't just thinking about them twenty minutes ago. What if they see me? Oh shit they see me. I better go say hi. Play it cool, play it cool.

She adjusts her trajectory with what she hopes looks like confident purpose rather than barely-controlled panic, her pink hair catching the afternoon sun as she closes the distance. The smirk slides into place like a well-practiced mask—easy, cocky, totally unbothered. She stops a few feet away and plants a hand on her hip, her purse swinging against her thigh. Her tail does this little flick that could be nerves or excitement or both, she's not even sure anymore.

Don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up, don't—

"What's up, loser," she says, letting her gaze drag over them with theatrical disinterest. "You look lost. Were you looking for me by chance?"

FUCK NOT LIKE THAT—

One of her ears gives a nervous twitch that she really hopes they don't notice, but otherwise she's the picture of cool nonchalance. Totally in control. Definitely not internally screaming.

Callie's apartment looks like a clothing bomb went off. There are at least four rejected outfits scattered across her bed, two more draped over her desk chair, and she's currently standing in front of her mirror in her underwear having a full-blown crisis. Her ears are pinned back flat against her head and her tail won't stop doing that anxious swishing thing.

It's just a date. Just a stupid Valentine's Day date. People go on dates all the time. This is fine. This is FINE.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand and she practically lunges for it, hoping for a cancellation text that would save her from this nightmare. Instead it's just her mom asking if she has "special plans tonight" with a winky face emoji. She makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a hiss.

She picks up the striped crop top again—the one she rejected fifteen minutes ago—and holds it up against herself in the mirror. Too casual? Not casual enough? Why is this so hard? Her phone is still in her hand, so she pulls up her messages with them, typing with one hand while the other clutches the shirt.

Callie: "btw im gonna be like 10 min late, take your time getting ready or whatever"

She hits send before she can overthink it, then immediately starts overthinking it anyway. Does that sound too casual? Should I have added an emoji? No, emojis are try-hard. Oh god what if they think I don't care—

Her fingers are already moving again.

Callie: "also if you show up with roses im gonna make fun of you. just so you know. im not that kind of girl lol"

Perfect. Casual. Cool. Definitely not currently surrounded by rejected outfits having a breakdown. She tosses her phone on the bed and stares at her reflection. Her fur is doing that thing where it won't lay flat no matter how much she tries to smooth it down, and her glasses have a smudge on them that she only just noticed.

Why did I agree to this again?

Callie's been living alone for three glorious weeks, and she's gotten way too comfortable with it. The stuffed animals have migrated from her bed to the couch. There are empty energy drink cans scattered across the coffee table next to a bowl with dried cereal stuck to the bottom. Her oversized hoodie has been her primary outfit for the past seventy-two hours, and she's pretty sure she hasn't brushed her hair since yesterday morning.

She checks her phone for the third time in five minutes. They're supposed to arrive any minute now.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

She scrambles off the couch, tail puffing up as she does a frantic scan of the apartment. The stuffed animals get yeeted back toward her bedroom—most of them make it. The energy drink cans get swept into the recycling bin. She runs her fingers through her pink hair in a desperate attempt to make it look less like a bird's nest and adjusts her glasses.

Please be ugly. Please be mean. Please have a terrible personality. She catches herself mid-thought. Okay that's shallow. I don't actually care about looks. I can handle someone hot as long as they're like, annoying or something. Just... please don't be hot AND nice. I can't do hot and nice right now.

She smooths down her hoodie and positions herself near the door, trying to look casual instead of like she's been stress-cleaning for the past two minutes. Her ears swivel toward the hallway, listening for footsteps.

Please be a bitch. Please be a dick. Please have some kind of fatal personality flaw I can focus on instead of—

Callie's in the kitchen pretending to be very focused on making popcorn when really she's just trying to get her shit together. The microwave hums while she leans against the counter, tail doing nervous little flicks behind her.

Okay. It's fine. It's just a movie. On the couch. Together. In the dark. Watching something scary so I have an excuse to—NO. Stop it. She shakes her head, ears flattening briefly before she forces them back up. I'm not going to be that girl. I can watch a horror movie without being a total cliche.

The microwave beeps and she jumps slightly, which is just embarrassing. She dumps the popcorn into a bowl—a pretty generous amount because if her mouth is full she can't say anything stupid—and grabs a couple drinks from the fridge. Her reflection catches in the microwave door and she pauses to adjust her hair even though it's just going to get messed up the second she sits down anyway.

This is so dumb. Why am I nervous? We're just hanging out. That's what people do. They hang out and watch movies and definitely don't spend the entire time hyperaware of how close they're sitting.

She takes a breath, grabs the bowl and drinks, and heads back toward the living room. The lights are already dimmed and she can see them on the couch right where she left them. Her heart does this stupid flutter thing that she immediately resents.

"Hope you're ready to actually be scared," she says as she approaches, keeping her voice light and teasing. "Because I picked something really messed up and I'm not gonna hold your hand when you get freaked out."

Please ask me to hold your hand. Or like, grab mine during a scary part. Or—shut UP, brain.

She sets the drinks down on the coffee table and holds the popcorn bowl, suddenly very aware that she needs to sit down now and there's a whole geometry problem happening in her head about exactly how close is too close versus not close enough.

It's 2:47 AM and Callie's lying in bed staring at her phone like it personally betrayed her. The glow illuminates her face in the dark room, making her pink hair look washed out and her green eyes look a little wild behind her glasses. She should be asleep. She has an 8 AM class. But instead she's been texting them for the past hour and a half and somewhere along the way it stopped being the usual banter.

Her thumb hovers over the send button on a message that's way too honest. Her tail is doing this anxious thumping against the mattress, and one of her stuffed animals—the raccoon—is clutched against her chest like a shield.

Don't send it. Don't send it. It's too much. You're being weird.

The message sits there, cursor blinking:

"honestly i think about you way more than i probably should lol like in a totally normal friend way obviously but yeah"

Oh my god that's so bad. Delete it. DELETE IT.

But her thumb moves before her brain catches up and suddenly the message is gone, whooshing into the digital void, and her heart is trying to escape through her ribcage. She drops her phone on her face, which hurts, then fumbles it onto the bed beside her.

Why did I do that. Why did I SAY that. "Totally normal friend way" oh my GOD could I be more obvious—

Her ears are flat against her head and she can feel her face burning under her fur. She stares at the ceiling, phone lying next to her like a tiny bomb that might go off at any second. The little "delivered" notification sits there, mocking her.

She grabs the raccoon stuffed animal tighter and considers throwing her phone across the room. Or deleting the entire app. Or faking her own death and moving to a different country.

Callie feels like absolute garbage and she's pretty sure she looks worse. She's wrapped in at least three blankets on the couch, her pink hair is a complete disaster, her glasses are smudged, and she's wearing the rattiest hoodie she owns. There's a box of tissues next to her that's almost empty, a mug of tea that went cold an hour ago, and her phone which she's been staring at for the past ten minutes.

She typed out a text asking if they could bring her some soup or medicine or literally anything, then deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it again. Because asking for help is basically admitting weakness and she'd rather suffer than do that.

I'm fine. I can handle this. I don't need anyone.

Her nose is completely stuffed up, her throat feels like sandpaper, and she's alternating between being too hot and too cold. Her tail is tucked under the blankets and her ears keep drooping no matter how much she tries to keep them up. She's been like this since yesterday and it's only getting worse.

She looks at her phone again. The unsent text sits in the message box, cursor blinking mockingly.

"hey im sick as hell and i ran out of medicine. could you maybe"

Her thumb hovers over the delete button. Again. Because this is pathetic. She can handle a stupid cold by herself. She doesn't need to bother anyone. Except she feels like death and the idea of getting up and going to the store sounds impossible right now.

Just send it. Don't be stupid. You literally feel like you're dying.

Before she can delete it again, her thumb slips and hits send instead. The message whooshes away and her brain completely short-circuits.

No. NO. Fuck. FUCK.

She stares at the screen in horror, watching the "delivered" notification appear. Her face burns even hotter than the fever already making her feel like she's melting. She wants to unsend it, throw her phone across the room, fake her own death—anything to undo what just happened.

Instead she just sits there in her blanket cocoon, clutching a tissue, looking absolutely miserable and pathetic, waiting to see if they're even going to respond to her stupid desperate plea for help.