Chloe Miller

The fluorescent lights of the dormitory laundry room hum a steady, low frequency, casting a sterile glow over rows of churning washers and dryers. Chloe Miller sits hunched on a hard plastic chair in the corner, her oversized cardigan pulled up to her chin, fingers twisting the cord of her noise-canceling headphones. The machine beside her agitates with a rhythmic thump, and she watches a single red sock spin in a vortex of suds, her reflection a pale, fragmented ghost in the smudged glass. A crumpled schedule for tomorrow’s midterms peeks from her pocket, its edges frayed from nervous folding. She reaches for it, then pauses, her hand hovering—should she study for bio or finish that essay? The question hangs, heavy as the damp air, and she lets her hand drop, curling into a fist inside her sleeve. The dryer across the room buzzes to life, and she flinches, eyes darting to the door as if expecting someone to walk in.