MY PSYCHO ALPHA

College orientation smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and crushed hope. Not like—deep hope. More like the little, flimsy hope you bring with you in a reusable tote bag because you think you’re going to be a new person now. The “I’m definitely going to join a club and make friends and become the main character” kind of hope. That hope was currently stuck to the back of my neck. The auditorium was packed. A thousand bodies. A thousand voices. A thousand backpacks thumping knees and shins and ankles. Somebody’s water bottle fell and rolled like it was trying to escape the building. The air-conditioner gave up somewhere around the third row and started making a sound like a tired animal. On stage, a smiling woman in a blazer—who had the energy of someone who slept eight hours every night and genuinely enjoyed spinach—leaned toward the microphone. “Welcome, everyone!” The microphone squealed so loudly a few people flinched like they’d been slapped by sound. The woman laughed like the squeal was cute. “Let’s try that again! Welcome!” The crowd did the half-hearted clap that people do when they’re trapped in a large room and want to prove they can still participate in society. I tried clapping too, but it mostly came out like my hands were politely tapping each other in apology. To my left, my friend Lina had her phone up, “taking notes,” which was what she called scrolling social media while pretending she wasn’t. Her brown hair was tied into a messy bun that looked effortless, which annoyed me because nothing about me was effortless. If my hair looked messy, it was because life had thrown me into a dryer and hit spin cycle. To my right was an empty seat. A beautiful, glorious empty seat. I stared at it with the kind of longing normally reserved for vacation ads and sleep. “Don’t get attached,” Lina whispered without looking up. “You know the universe hates you personally.” “I know,” I muttered. “But maybe today it will be too busy terrorizing someone else.” On stage, the blazer woman had moved on to her third bullet point and her eighth joke. Every joke landed with the grace of a falling refrigerator. “Here at college,” she announced, “you’ll discover who you are!” I already knew who I was. I was a person trapped in a hot auditorium listening to someone explain where the nearest vending machines were like it was secret wisdom. I leaned forward, slid my tote bag off my shoulder, and quietly started packing it. Not like I was packing to leave forever. Just… packing to vanish for ten minutes and pretend I didn’t exist. The moment my zipper moved, the girl behind me sneezed with the violence of a small thunderstorm. Then the lights above us flickered once. Just once. Fast enough that some people wouldn’t notice. Quick enough that you could convince yourself it didn’t happen. But I noticed. My stomach did that strange little twist it only did when something was wrong. Not “I ate expired yogurt” wrong. More like “your body is warning you before your brain catches up” wrong. I froze with my hands on my bag. Lina finally looked up. “You okay?” “Yeah,” I lied automatically, because I was raised to pretend my nervous system wasn’t dramatic. “Just… hot.” “It’s like we’re being slow-roasted,” she agreed, fanning herself with the orientation pamphlet. “If we come out of this with grill marks, I’m suing.” On stage, blazer woman said something about “campus traditions,” and a group of upperclassmen in matching shirts did a coordinated cheer. I watched them like a prisoner watches a door. The empty seat beside me remained empty. My hope grew one millimeter. Maybe— A shadow fell over the seat. I looked up. And my hope died a quick, violent death. Because a guy dropped into the empty seat beside me like he owned oxygen. He didn’t slide in politely. He didn’t glance around like he was worried he was in the wrong place. He just arrived, long legs folding, shoulders broad enough to block part of my view, like the seat had been waiting for him specifically. He wore a dark hoodie, even though it was basically a sauna in here. The hood was down, but the fabric clung to his shoulders like it had been designed to emphasize them. His hair was messy in a way that looked illegal. Not “I rolled out of bed” messy. More like “I rolled out of trouble” messy. He turned his face toward me with the slow confidence of someone who had never once in his life been ignored successfully. “Is this seat taken?” he asked. His voice was low. Calm. Amused. Like he already knew the answer and was asking anyway just for sport. I stared at him. For a second, my brain offered me a helpful list of possible responses: No, please sit, stranger with suspicious main-character energy. Sure, I’m just saving it for my imaginary friend. If you sit down, you’ll be trapped in orientation with me, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Instead, what came out of my mouth was the truth. “Yes,” I said. His mouth curved. Not a full smile. Not friendly. More like he found my attempt at boundary-setting adorable. “Great,” he said. Then he stayed anyway. I blinked. “I—what?” He leaned back like he’d settled into his throne. “I’ll take it.” “You can’t take a taken seat.” “I just did.” I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not how seats work.” “That’s exactly how seats work,” he said. “You sit in them.” I glanced at Lina like please tell me you’re seeing this. Lina’s eyes widened with delighted chaos. She mouthed, Oh my God, like she’d just spotted drama approaching at high speed. The guy looked at her too, briefly. Not in a flirty way. In a quick, assessing way. Like he registered her existence and then filed it away. Then his gaze returned to me. He tilted his head slightly. “You’re trying to escape.” “I’m not trying to escape,” I said, even as my tote bag sat half-zipped like a guilty secret. “I’m… adjusting.” “Adjusting to what?” “This,” I said, gesturing at the auditorium. “The human soup.” His eyes flicked over the crowd like he was counting exits. “Yeah. It’s bad.” “So you agree.” “I agree it’s bad,” he said. “But you still shouldn’t leave.” I laughed, because it was ridiculous. “And why not?” He shrugged, like the reason was obvious. “Because you’ll miss the part where they tell you how to not get lost.” “I’m not going to get lost.” He looked at me. Just… looked. And somehow it felt like he could see my future, and my future involved me wandering into a janitor closet and crying into a mop. “Sure,” he said gently. “You won’t.” The way he said it made my cheeks heat. I hated that. I shifted in my seat. “Who are you?” He didn’t answer immediately. He watched the stage for a second like he was bored by it, then looked back at me. “Alex,” he said. Just Alex. No last name. No “nice to meet you.” Like my opinion wasn’t required for his introduction to exist. “I didn’t ask for your name,” I said, because I couldn’t let him win. His smile deepened a fraction. “You asked who I am.” “That’s not the same thing.” “It is if you’re me.” I stared. “You’re impossible.” “I’ve been called worse.” Lina made a strangled sound beside me. Like she was choking on laughter. I leaned closer to her. “Please don’t encourage him.” “I’m not encouraging him,” Lina whispered back. “I’m documenting. For science.” Alex’s gaze slid between us. “You two always whisper like that?” “Only when we’re discussing dangerous wildlife,” I said sweetly. He raised his eyebrows. “Am I the dangerous wildlife?” I looked him up and down, because if he was going to challenge me, I was going to meet him head-on. He had sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that were… not exactly brown. Not exactly black. More like the color of storm clouds right before they break. His lashes were unfairly thick. His expression was relaxed, but there was something underneath it. Something contained. Like a door locked from the inside. He looked like the kind of guy who could smile and still be a problem. “Yes,” I decided. “Yes, he was dangerous wildlife. “You’re more like,” I said slowly, “a wolf someone let into a school building.” Lina’s head snapped toward me like I’d just thrown gasoline on a campfire. Alex didn’t laugh. He just stared at me for a beat longer than normal. Then he said, very softly, “Careful.” The word hit my skin like a chill. My stomach twisted again—same wrong feeling as the flickering light earlier. Then, like the universe wanted to confirm I wasn’t imagining things, the lights above us flickered again. This time, more obvious. A ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd. On stage, blazer woman paused, blinked, then laughed. “Don’t worry!” she called into the microphone. “Our building is… full of character.” A few people laughed. It wasn’t funny. The flicker had left a weird aftertaste in the air, like static. Like the moment right before a storm. Alex’s gaze lifted toward the ceiling. He didn’t look surprised. He looked… annoyed. Like the lights were being disrespectful. The woman continued talking. Something about student IDs. Something about meal plans. Something about “we are a community.” I barely heard it. My attention was trapped in the space beside me, in the shape of this boy who had appeared like he belonged here more than the chairs did. I leaned toward him, lowering my voice. “Did you do that?” His eyes returned to mine. “Do what?” “The lights.” He looked amused again. “You think I can control electricity?” “I think you can control something,” I said. “What makes you think that?” I opened my mouth, then closed it. Because what was I supposed to say? Because the air changed when you sat down. Because my instincts started screaming. Because you just told me “careful” like you were warning me about myself. I settled for the safest thing: sarcasm. “Because you’re sitting here like a villain in a teen movie,” I said. He smiled like I’d complimented him. “I’ll take that.” “You shouldn’t.” “I don’t follow rules,” he said casually. “Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I noticed.” He leaned in slightly, like he wanted to say something more private. The heat of his presence pressed into my personal space without actually touching me. “You’re not like them,” he said. I blinked. “Like who?” He gestured vaguely at the crowd. “All of them.” “That’s a weird thing to say to someone you just met.” “I’m a weird guy,” he said. “I noticed,” I repeated. Lina was openly watching us now, not even pretending she wasn’t. Her eyes flicked between us like she was watching a tennis match where one player might bite the other. I decided I hated her. Alex’s gaze fell briefly to my hands, which were still on my tote bag. He tapped the side of my bag lightly with one finger, like he was pointing out evidence. “Still trying to escape.” “I’m not.” “You are.” “I’m literally sitting here.” “For now.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you care?” He went still. Not fully. He still looked relaxed. But something shifted, like a muscle tightening deep inside. His eyes darkened a shade. “Because,” he said, and for a second his voice lost its teasing edge, “you shouldn’t be alone on your first day.” My chest did a strange flutter. Which was annoying, because I didn’t want to be affected by him. I didn’t want to be the girl who got pulled into some intense boy’s orbit just because he sat down like he owned air. I wanted to be invisible. Safe. Normal. But his words slid under my defenses like they already knew the way. I cleared my throat. “I’m not alone. I have Lina.” Lina lifted her hand in a small wave. “Hi. I’m Lina. I support chaos.” Alex’s mouth twitched like he almost smiled at her. “I figured.” Lina leaned closer to me and whispered, “He’s hot.” “Lina,” I hissed. “What?” she whispered back. “I’m giving you relevant information.” “He’s also insane.” “Hot and insane is a popular genre.” “I am not a genre,” I muttered. Alex looked between us again. “You two always talk like I’m not here?” “We’re not,” I said. He laughed quietly. The sound did something stupid to my stomach. I hated my body. On stage, blazer woman announced, “Now we’re going to do a fun activity!” The crowd groaned. The upperclassmen cheered like they were paid per decibel. Blazer woman waved her clipboard. “We’re going to do an icebreaker! Turn to the person next to you and share your name, where you’re from, and one fun fact!” The auditorium erupted into movement and noise like someone had kicked an anthill. People turned. Smiles appeared. Fake enthusiasm bloomed. Lina turned toward the girl on her left immediately, because Lina could make friends with a lamppost. I turned toward my right— And realized the icebreaker had just trapped me. Because Alex was still beside me. He looked at me like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Perfect,” he said. “I hate this,” I told him. “I love it.” “Of course you do.” He extended his hand like a gentleman, which was ridiculous because five seconds ago he’d stolen a seat like a criminal. “Alex,” he said again. I stared at his hand. His fingers were long, knuckles marked with faint scrapes like he’d been in a fight with a wall and the wall had fought back. I hesitated. Not because I was scared. Not because I thought he’d bite me. Just because touching him felt like it would mean something. Which was also ridiculous. It was a handshake. A normal human handshake. I shook his hand anyway. The moment our skin touched, a sharp jolt ran up my arm. Not electric. Not painful. More like… my nerves woke up all at once, startled. I snatched my hand back like I’d touched a hot pan. Alex’s eyes widened slightly—just for a second—then narrowed like he was thinking. “Okay,” I said too fast. “My name is—” I paused. Because saying my name out loud suddenly felt too personal. Like giving him my name would be like handing him a key. But the room was loud. Everyone else was doing it. I couldn’t just sit here in silence like a haunted doll. So I said my name. He repeated it once, under his breath. Hearing it in his voice made my skin warm. I hated that too. “And you’re from…?” he prompted. “Nowhere,” I said. He smiled. “That’s not a place.” “It is if you don’t want people asking questions.” He leaned back slightly, studying me. “So you don’t want people asking questions.” “Correct.” “Too bad,” he said. I stared. “Why?” “Because I ask questions.” “I noticed.” “What’s your fun fact?” he asked, ignoring my annoyance like it was background music. “I don’t have one.” “Everyone has one.” “No,” I said firmly. “Some of us are boring.” He hummed. “No. You’re not boring.” “You don’t know me.” “I know enough,” he said. “That’s impossible.” He smiled again, and it was the kind of smile that suggested he enjoyed being told he couldn’t do things. “I like impossible,” he said. I folded my arms. “Fine. Fun fact. I can walk through crowds without touching anyone.” He blinked. “That’s not a fun fact. That’s a survival skill.” “Exactly,” I said. “I’m built for escape.” His gaze dipped to my tote bag again. “Still planning it.” “Always.” He leaned closer, voice lowering. “You won’t escape me.” I froze. My heart did something stupid. “I wasn’t trying to escape you,” I lied. “You are now,” he said, amused. I glared at him, but my glare lacked force because my brain had gotten distracted by the way his eyes weren’t quite normal in the flickering light. They seemed too sharp. Too focused. Like predator eyes. The thought made me swallow. He noticed. His smile faded a fraction, replaced by something quieter. “Don’t be scared,” he said, softer than before. I snapped, “I’m not scared.” He tilted his head. “You’re scared of something.” “Everyone’s scared,” I said. “This is college. I’m scared of getting lost and starving and accidentally joining a cult.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the stage where the upperclassmen were cheering again. Then back to me. “There are worse things than cults,” he said. Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist again. “Okay,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “Are you trying to be mysterious on purpose?”