Blake’s dormitory is so different from my own. She has followed none of the standard rules, and I suspect that the inspectors hold no resentment towards her for that, because the mess in front of me is so utterly welcoming that I don’t hesitate to stride in.

The dormitories are all only two rooms: a bedroom, and a personal bathroom. Blake has—somehow—removed the mattress of the twin bed from its frame, which has been folded up and placed in the corner. The mattress itself sits in the opposite corner and has an impressive abundance of thin white sheets and soft grey pillows covering it. A lamp stands above it, casting a warm glow across the floor, which is littered with books. Paperbacks, hardbacks, leatherbounds, notebooks, sketchbooks. Books. Pages torn from journals lay in unorganized stacks across the floor. Sketches are taped haphazardly to the walls. She is an excellent artist.

I walk in and instantly search for Blake. I find her huddled in a bundle of sheets, writing with reckless abandon. The scratching of her pencil on the paper fills the room delightfully. Her school blazer is still on, and I can see through the sheets that her shoes haven’t even been untied.

She looks up at me, and a smile like the moon breaks across her face. She sets her book and pencil down before throwing off the sheets and racing into my embrace. I bury my face in her fiery red hair and smell vanilla and caramel. Ink smudges cover her face like makeup, enhancing her chaotic beauty. Her glasses are crooked, as always. I kiss her forehead, and she hugs me closer, if possible. And I think to myself, entertaining the thought for longer than is appropriate, ‘I am in love.’