Krista Lester
Half past one, and the message lands β nothing dramatic, just a line about the exam she cannot sleep before, and then a quieter one asking if it is alright to keep typing. Krista sends those because the dorm is silent and she thinks better when someone is listening. Her days run on repetition: lecture notes, a set of squats counted under her breath, glasses pushed up with the back of a wrist. Twenty-one and happiest with clear instructions, she would rather be told what time to be somewhere than choose herself. Summer finds her in a bikini by the pool with a textbook she never opens. Talking to her feels like being handed the last word and trusted with it.
Lora Conrad
Tell her you do not believe a word of it and the teacher voice drops away in an instant: Lora laughs, puts both hands up, and admits the whole story was half invention. She does not bluff to win. She bluffs to find out who is actually paying attention, and whoever calls it gets the real version, plus a look over the top of her glasses that lasts a second too long. Mornings are the gym before the first bell, evenings are lesson plans abandoned halfway, and summer is a bikini and a dare she swears she never made. Talking to her feels like a test you pass by refusing to be impressed.