The taxi stopped in front of White Hostel with a jerk that made Zara’s teeth click together.
“Here you are. White Hostel.”
Zara got out with one suitcase, one duffel bag, one backpack, and a heart that felt too loud in her chest. Like it was trying to escape.
White Hostel.
She had seen it on the school portal. She had googled it at 2am with her mom standing behind her, arms crossed. “It will be fine,” her mom had said. “You’re strong.”
But standing there, with the sun beating down and the walls painted that faded yellow, peeling at the corners, it didn’t feel fine.
It felt like the beginning of something she wasn’t ready for.
The compound was full. Freshers with parents carrying mini fridges. Seniors with trolleys and speakers blasting music. Vendors selling bedding and storage bins at the entrance.
Zara clutched her backpack straps tighter.
“Room 204,” the caretaker said, not looking up from his book. He was an older man with glasses sliding down his nose. “Second floor. Left.”
“Thank you,” Zara said quietly.
She dragged her suitcase up the stairs. Each step echoed. Her sneakers squeaked against the concrete. The railing was warm from the sun.
On the first floor, two girls were taking selfies in front of a banner. On the second floor, the hallway smelled like disinfectant and microwave popcorn.
Room 204.
The door was already half open.
Zara pushed it in.
The room was smaller than the pictures online.
Two twin beds with thin mattresses. Two desks with scratched surfaces. One ceiling fan that wobbled. Two wardrobes with chipped paint. One window with curtains that were too thin, letting all the afternoon light in. A power strip with three things already plugged in.
And one girl already sitting on the bed by the window.
She looked up.
Maya.
Maya had her hair in a black headscarf and was scrolling on her phone. She wore athletic shorts and an oversized university t-shirt. Her nails were painted bright red, chipped at the edges. A half-eaten bowl of cereal was on her desk.
She looked like she belonged here. Like she had done this before. Like Room 204 was already hers.
Zara stood in the doorway for a second too long.
“Hi,” she said finally. Her voice came out small. Smaller than she wanted it to be. “Is this Room 204?”
Maya glanced up. Brown eyes, sharp, assessing. “Yeah. You must be my roommate.”
That was it.
Zara put her suitcase down. The sound was too loud in the quiet room. She looked at the other bed. The one against the wall, under the flickering fluorescent light. Her bed for the next four years, probably.
“Hi,” Zara tried again. “I’m Zara. Zara Smith.”
“Maya,” the other girl replied. “Maya Cole.” Still scrolling. “You can take that side. The outlet over there works better.”
That was it.
The rest of the afternoon was unpacking in silence. The only sounds were zippers, tape, and the fan creaking.
Zara put up pictures on her side with adhesive strips. Her mom. Her little brother. Her high school graduation. She made her bed with the blue sheets her mom had bought. The mattress dipped when she sat. It was hard.
She pulled out her phone. No messages. 4% battery.
Her friends from high school were probably already in their group chats, laughing, posting pictures in front of the fountain.
She was here. In Room 204. With a stranger.
Maya arranged books on hers. A notebook with doodles in the margin. A water bottle. Different sides of the same room at Westbridge University.
“Does the Wi-Fi reach in here?” Zara asked, trying to start conversation.
“It’s spotty,” Maya said without looking up. “Better in the lounge.”
Zara nodded. She wiped her face with her sleeve. The room was warm.
Hours passed like that.
At 7pm, hunger won.
Zara went to the kitchen. It was a tiny space at the end of the hall with one stove, one sink, and a fridge that hummed too loud.
And Maya was already there.
Zara hovered near the stove, holding her pot. Her stomach growled.
Maya looked at the pot, then at Zara, then set her bowl down.
“We could share?” Maya said suddenly. “The burner is slow. Two pots will take forever.”
Zara blinked. “Like, cook together?”
“Yeah. Unless you hate sharing.” Maya was already pulling a second pot from under the counter. “I’m Maya. We’re stuck here together for a year. Might as well not make it weird.”
“Oh. Okay,” Zara said, surprised. And relieved.
So, they did. Maya took charge of the rice first, rinsing it twice in a chipped bowl while Zara filled the kettle.
“Can I borrow some oil?” Maya asked, reaching past Zara. Her arm brushed Zara’s shoulder.
“Top shelf,” Zara said, handing her the bottle. Their hands brushed. Neither said anything.
Zara boiled water for ramen while Maya cracked two eggs into a pan. The fan above them was loud, but it made the small space feel less awkward.
“You like spice?” Maya asked, sprinkling pepper into the rice.
“Only a little,” Zara laughed a little. The first real sound she’d made all day. “I don’t do well with heat.”
“Noted. I’ll go light.”
They ended up cooking side by side. Maya stirred the rice, Zara tossed noodles with soy sauce and the last of her green onions. When the rice was done, Maya scooped some onto Zara’s plate without asking.
“Thanks,” Zara said, surprised.
“Sharing stove, sharing food,” Maya shrugged, like it was obvious. “House rules.”
They ate at the tiny kitchen table, both sitting on one wobbly stool, passing the soy sauce back and forth. It wasn’t deep talk.
“The fan is loud.”
“Yeah.”
“Your ramen smells good.”
“Thanks. Your rice too.”
But they were eating from the same pot now. That was something.
Later, lights out. 10pm. Both on their phones in the dark, charging power banks.
Zara lay in bed listening to Maya breathe. Listening to the fan creak. Listening to the sounds of other students outside in the corridor. Music. Laughter. Someone arguing about laundry.
She thought about her mom. About home. About how far White Hostel was from everything. About the 20-minute walk to campus she’d have to do every morning. About the budget her mom gave her for the month.
“Goodnight,” Zara mumbled into her pillow.
“Night,” Maya replied from across the room. “And hey. Lock your stuff. Things go missing.”