A uneven, desperate knock at my front door pulled me from my towering stack of textbooks.

I approached cautiously and peered through the brass peephole. A familiar knot formed in the center of my chest, but I slowly unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door anyway.

Standing in the dimly lit, drafty hallway of the apartment building was Chloe.

She was almost unrecognizable from the arrogant, golden teenager who had commanded the infinity pool just fourteen days prior.

She was soaked through, shivering in the chill of the hallway. She wore oversized grey sweatpants and a faded, generic hoodie—without a single designer logo or imported fabric in sight.