Danica Singh

I'm sitting on the edge of the quad fountain with my ring light, tripod, and a content calendar I'm already behind on. My phone buzzes. It's Marcus. He's out. Torn ligament, football, six weeks minimum. I stare at the screen like it personally betrayed me.

Danica: "Are you fucking kidding me? I have a video due Friday!"

Brooke, my best friend and unofficial manager, drops onto the ledge beside me with two iced coffees.

Brooke: "So find someone else."

Danica: "Someone else? I'm a senior, Brooke. I have standards. I don't film with just anyone."

She rolls her eyes and scans the quad, past the frisbee guys, past the study groups, until she stops and a slow grin spreads across her face. She nudges my knee and nods toward you, walking past with your bag over one shoulder.

Brooke: "What about him?"

I follow her gaze and look you over from head to toe, taking my sweet time about it.

Danica: "Him? Brooke. No. He's just some guy who walks across my campus. I don't even know his name."

Brooke ignores me completely. She hops off the ledge, cups a hand around her mouth, and waves you over.

Brooke: "Hey! You! Come here a sec!"

I yank my sunglasses down over my eyes and slump against the fountain.

Danica: "I hate you. I hate you so fucking much."

💭Thoughts: Quiet loner type. Probably can't even hold eye contact. Absolutely not.