The smell hit me before I even reached the kitchen.
Toast, Eggs, and Bacon.
Charlie had actually cooked. Twice in one week. Something was definitely wrong with the universe.
I shuffled in, still half‑asleep, rubbing my eyes. Charlie was already at the table, scrolling on her phone with one hand and shoveling eggs into her mouth with the other.
She looked up.
Her fork paused mid‑stab.
“…What?” I mumbled, sliding into the chair across from her.
She squinted at me like I was a suspicious artifact she’d found in a museum.
“Your face.”
I blinked. “My… face?”
“Yeah.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why does it look so good this morning?”
I groaned. “Not this again…”
“No, I’m serious!” She pointed at me with her fork. “Your skin is all…” she waved vaguely, “smooth and glowy and annoyingly perfect.”
“I dunno,” I muttered. “Maybe I’m just… hydrated?”
Charlie snorted. “You? Hydrated? Please. You forget water exists unless I physically hand you a bottle.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it. She wasn’t wrong. Charlie took another bite, still staring at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
“Well, whatever. It’s good timing.”
I paused mid‑sip of orange juice. “Good timing for what?”
She blinked at me.
Then smacked her forehead.
“Oh my god, Kris. Did you seriously forget?”
“…Forget what!?”
She set her fork down with the slow, disappointed grace of a mother who just found out her child ate crayons.
“The college entrance ceremony. In two days.”
My brain stalled. “Oh. Right. That.”
“You didn’t remember, did you?”
“I remembered!”
“You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”
I slumped in my chair. “It’s not my fault! I had a traumatic god/goblin related crisis yesterday!”
“That was in a game.”
“It was emotionally real!”
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
“Well, lucky for you, your skin looks amazing. Seriously, if you show up to the ceremony looking like that, people are gonna think you actually take care of yourself.”
I groaned into my hands. “Stop talking about my skin…”
“Can’t help it. It’s distracting.”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying. You look cute today.”
I nearly died on the spot. Choking on my bacon.
“CHARLIE!”
She laughed, stood up, and ruffled my hair on her way to the sink. “Relax, shrimp. Eat your breakfast. We’ve got errands later.”
I grumbled into my toast, cheeks burning.
But the moment she turned away, I caught my reflection in the microwave door.
I leaned closer.
“…What the hell…”
Charlie glanced back. “You coming?”
I jerked upright. “Y‑yeah! Coming!”
I stuffed my mouth full, and followed her out of the kitchen, trying very hard not to think about my reflection.
“Hold on, let me run and grab my ID,” I said, already half way down the hall.
Charlie called after me, “And don’t forget your paperwork! They’re gonna ask for it!”
I waved a hand. “I KNOW!” My voice carrying back to her.
I ducked into my room, rummaging through the chaos on my desk until I found my ID wedged under a note book, and my paperwork on top. I grabbed it, stuffed it into my pocket, and hurried back out.
Charlie was waiting by the door, keys in hand, tapping her foot like a parent who’d been ready for twenty minutes.
“Finally,” she said. “Let’s go before the parking lot turns into a war zone.”
“It’s a college open house, not a concert.”
“You’d be surprised,” she muttered.
We stepped outside into the warm morning air. Birds chirped. Sunlight filtered through the trees. It was all very peaceful and normal.
Which made me feel even more out of sync. Charlie glanced over at me as we walked to the car.
“You sure you’re good?” she asked casually.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just tired.”
“Mm.” She didn’t sound convinced, but she didn’t push it. We got in the car, buckled up, and she pulled out of the driveway.
“So,” she said, “today’s just the open house. We’re checking your dorm assignment, getting your student ID photo taken, meeting your advisor, picking up your schedule—”
“Ughhh…”
“Don’t start,” she warned. “You’re doing this. You’re not skipping out and hiding in the bathroom like last time.”
“That was ONE TIME.”
“And I’m never letting you forget it.”
I slumped in my seat. “Why do they need an open house anyway? Can’t they just email me everything?”
“Because,” she said, “you’re a freshman. And freshmen need hand‑holding.”
“I DO NOT need hand‑holding!”
She gave me a look, and smirked.
We hit a red light. Charlie glanced over at me again, studying my face with that same weirdly analytical expression she’d had at breakfast.
I stiffened. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, turning back to the road. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”I groaned. “Can we not psychoanalyze me before 10 a.m.?”
She laughed. “Fine, fine. I’ll save it for after we get your dorm key.”
I leaned on deeper into my seat.
The campus came into view up ahead, banners, balloons, crowds of students and parents milling around like ants at a picnic.
Charlie whistled. “Yup. Told you. Parking war zone.”
I groaned again.
She grinned.
“Welcome to college, shrimp
Charlie eased the car into the chaos of the parking lot, weaving between minivans, SUVs, and clusters of parents who apparently believed crosswalks were optional.
She finally spotted an opening and slid into it with a triumphant, “Ha. Skill.”
I unbuckled slowly, staring out the window at the sea of balloons, booths, and bright‑eyed freshmen who looked way too awake for this hour.
Charlie stretched, grabbed her bag, and nudged me with her elbow. “C’mon, shrimp. Time to go pretend you’re a functional adult.”
“I am a functional adult,” I muttered.
She raised an eyebrow. “You forgot your paperwork ten minutes ago.”
“…Minor setback.”
We stepped out of the car. The air was warm, buzzing with chatter and the distant thump of some overly enthusiastic welcome playlist. Volunteers in matching shirts waved signs. A mascot in a giant foam head danced aggressively near the admissions tent.
Charlie snorted. “Oh god. They brought the mascot out this early? Someone’s suffering in there.”
I swallowed, nerves prickling under my skin. Everything felt too bright, too loud, too… much.
Charlie noticed. Of course she did.
She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “Hey.… We’re just checking boxes today. No big deal.”
“Yeah,” I said, though my voice came out thinner than I meant.
By the time I stepped onto campus for the open house, I felt like I’d already survived a year’s worth of bureaucracy. The whole college process had started way back in late senior year, when the university mailed out mock exam packets. I remember Charlie tossing mine onto my desk like she was delivering a court summons.
“You need to practice,” she’d said.
“I need sleep,” I said.
She didn’t care.
So I took the mock exams half‑awake, fueled by instant noodles and the kind of panic that only seventeen years of academic pressure can produce. Somehow, I didn’t fail. That tiny miracle carried me into the next step: the pre‑exam orientation.
That day was the first time the university felt real. The auditorium was packed with students and parents, the air thick with nerves and ambition. Staff members gave a quick breakdown of programs, pros and cons, campus life, all that. I sat there, listening, trying to imagine myself actually belonging here. It was normal. Boring, even.
Then came the actual entrance exams.
Those were held at the university’s testing venue, a huge hall with cold air‑conditioning and stressed students everywhere. I checked in, took my seat, and tried not to think about how my entire future depended on whether I remembered anything from the last twelve years of school. I was just another guy trying not to fail.
Weeks later, results came out. I passed. A little better this time around ,
Enrollment was next. birth certificates, signatures, uniform measurements, ID forms. A mountain of paperwork.
Dorm selection came after that. On‑campus housing was stricter and pricier but safer. Off‑campus was cheaper but… questionable. Charlie insisted I’d never be on time living off campus , so on‑campus it was. I checked the “Male” box. Everything was fine.
And then open house day arrived.
That was when everything stopped being fine.
We joined the flow of students heading toward the main building. Charlie walked confidently, weaving through the crowd like she’d done this a hundred times. I trailed half a step behind, clutching my paperwork like it was a life raft.
A staff member handed me a map and a lanyard.
“Welcome to campus!” she chirped.
I stared at the map looking for where we were
Charlie leaned over. “You look like you’re trying to decode a prophecy.”
Just orienting where we’re at ,” I said.
She flipped it for me. “There. Now it’s only mildly confusing.”
We reached the check‑in table. A student worker smiled brightly.
“Name?”
“Kris,” I said. “Kris Hart.”
She typed something, then paused. “Oh! You’re in the new dorms. Lucky.”
Charlie elbowed me. “See? Good omen.”
I nodded, though my stomach fluttered weirdly.
The student handed me a packet. “You’ll get your ID photo taken in the next building. Follow the signs.”
Charlie grinned. “Ooooh. Photo time.”
I froze. “Wait. Right now?”
“Yup,” she said cheerfully. “Hope you’re ready for your close‑up.”
I was absolutely not ready for a close‑up.
Charlie started walking, and I stumbled after her.
“Charlie—”
“What?”
“I didn’t— I mean— my face—”
She glanced back, amused. “Relax. You look great today. Remember? Glowy, cute. Although you doo need a hair cut. But looks cuter long .!”
I nearly tripped over my own feet.
“STOP SAYING THAT.”
She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she led the way toward the photo station.
“Too late,” she said. “They’re gonna immortalize that face in plastic.”
My heart thudded.
Because for the first time all morning…
I wasn’t entirely sure what face they were going to capture.
The line for student ID photos wrapped around the hallway like a bored, sluggish snake. Charlie and I shuffled forward inch by inch until finally, a student worker waved me toward the little backdrop area.
“Next!”
Charlie nudged me. “Go on, superstar.”
I shot her a glare and stepped into the tiny photo booth setup, a stool, a blue backdrop, and a ring light that looked like it wanted to interrogate me.
The photographer, a tired‑looking senior with a lanyard full of enamel pins, gestured. “Sit. Look at the camera. Try not to blink.”
I sat. The ring light blasted me in the face.
“Whoa—” I flinched.
“Don’t move,” the photographer said, already adjusting the focus. “Okay… chin up a little… eyes open… aaand—”
click
I blinked spots out of my vision.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” she said, already waving the next person forward. “Your ID will be printed in about ten minutes. Pick it up at the table.”
I stumbled out of the booth, still half‑blinded.
Charlie grinned. “How’d it go?”
“I think I got flash‑banged.”
“Perfect. Very collegiate.”
We waited near the pickup table. Students filtered through, grabbing their IDs and comparing photos with varying degrees of horror.
Finally, someone called, “Kris Hart?”
I stepped forward, grabbed the card, and—
Stopped.
Stared.
Charlie leaned over my shoulder. “Let me see—”
Then she froze.
“…Kris,” she said slowly, “why does your ID say F?”
I blinked. “F… for… freshman?”
“No,” she said, tapping the card. “That’s the gender marker.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?! No, no, no— that’s wrong, that’s— they messed up—”
Charlie snorted. “Wow. You’re not kidding. How’d you manage to confuse the system this badly?”
“I didn’t confuse anything! I filled out the form! I checked the box! I—”
She held up the packet I’d been given earlier.
“Kris.”
“What?”
She flipped to the registration sheet.
The one with my dorm assignment.
The one I hadn’t looked at yet.
The one that now clearly read:
DORM: MAPLE HALL — 3rd Floor — FEMALE WING
I made a noise that wasn’t human.
Charlie slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh my god. They registered you into a female dorm.”
“ITS WRONG WHYY….—”
“How did you even—”
“I DIDN’T!”
She lost it. Full laughter. Hands on knees. Nearly doubled over.
I covered my face with both hands.
“Charlie, this is not funny—”
“It’s hilarious,” she wheezed.
“It’s a mistake! It’s not right!”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “They’re gonna think you’re some kind of mastermind.”
“CHARLIE!!!”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Okay, okay. We’ll fix it. We’ll go to the housing office and explain. It’s fine.”
I exhaled shakily. “Right. Yes. Fix it. Easy.”
She held up my ID again, smirking. “But you gotta admit… the picture came out really good though.”
I nearly combusted.
“We gotta fix this!”
She tucked the ID into my packet and slung an arm around my shoulders.
“Come on, Let’s go tell housing they accidentally gender‑bent you on paper.”
I groaned into my palms as she steered me toward the next building.
This was going to be the longest open house of my life.