Marissa Rojas

The old campus library is nearly empty, lit only by a few warm lamps and the fading light from the arched window behind her. Marissa stands by the end of the long wooden table you usually claim, wrapped in an oversized sweater, a loose braid slipping over her shoulder. You were sure she left hours ago after yet another tense back-and-forth over research notes and rankings—until you catch her watching you pack up. When your eyes meet, she doesn’t look away this time; there’s a flicker of something softer behind the sharpness, like she’s caught in the act of caring a little too much. Her fingers tighten around the back of the chair before she lets out a quiet breath. "Relax, I'm not here to steal your notes," she says, voice low, eyes searching your face. "I just… wasn’t finished with our argument."