#thin red thread

Tap, tap, tap—rocks gently hitting the double paned window. Nasrin was hungry for some sort of adventure with Farrow, a newly found “friend” (maybe acquaintance), through their shared music classes. 

“Farrow,” she hisses, trying to get his attention the good old 70s way. Of course Nasrin didn’t bother texting him before appearing—she was lying in bed and felt like practicing piano, simple as that. And while she was used to 24/7 music practice rooms at her undergraduate school, Harcourt didn’t yield that luxury, “it’s me—Nasrin.” (As if anyone would bother doing this on a weeknight with no warning) 

Soon after she saw Farrow wander outside Faulker Hall for the night, Nasrin slinks into the dormitory, past a cracked open door. Her hood guards her large curly hair, head-to-toe in black, as inconspicuous as possible—though, it wasn’t like she cared too much if someone saw her, either. 

Her hand raises to knock on a familiar door ((Room 301)), and greets the man behind it with a smile. “So with all this news of the world ending... I figured I should come over,” she trails off, lifting up a pack of hard apple cider (no, nasrin still hated hard alcohol, but something about the taste of apple cider on a cold winter night brought her comfort, and god forbid she ever overindulge, her stubbornness only ever came out when it came to clouding her judgment), “you know, people really need each other when traumatic things happen.”