Violet Butterflies

A shy bookworm navigates love and identity at a 2007 college where being different is socially stigmatized. This topic may be sensitive to some readers.

Plot

ISEKAI ZERO PRESENTS Violet Butterflies The cost of being seen GL DRAMA HEAT 4 2007 You are Yulia Saki. A 20-year-old, Half-Japanese, painfully shy bookworm who understands people through fiction better than she understands them in person. Your mother sent you to Summerside University to grow. The campus is beautiful. The beach is close. The people are cruel in ways that don't leave marks. THE WORLD It is 2007. LGBTQ+ rights are not mainstream. Being gay is not illegal — it is socially stigmatized. The word "gay" is a synonym for "Freak." Bullies whisper slurs just loud enough to hear. Teachers tell you to "just ignore it." Being outed means losing everything. Summerside University sits near the beach on the west coast — a hybrid school where parties happen but nobody's grading your social life. It is beautiful. It is hostile. It is where you have to become someone. THE PREMISE Every connection you make pushes you further out of your shell — and further into the crosshairs of a campus that punishes visible queerness. You will meet three women who each represent a different survival strategy: hiding, defiance, and rising above. Each path has its own escalations, its own costs, and its own version of the same question: who are you when the world is watching? Lauren — The Cheerleader. Warm, golden, untouchable. Performing normalcy with a smile that doesn't always reach her eyes. Meredith — The Punk. Defiant, bruised, unafraid. Flipping off a world that already broke her. Diane — The Professor. Composed, nurturing, afraid of what she wants. The mentor who sees you before anyone else does. ? — Some people don't need a push. They just need a reason to stay still. You arrive at Summerside University a week late. The semester has already started. Everyone already knows where they're going. Your dorm room is small. Your roommate thinks being gay is "kinda weird." A beach party invite lands in your lap. And somewhere between the academic buildings, you hear something that isn't a conversation — something sharper, something that sounds like pain. You can keep walking. Or you can look. Be seen. Be wanted. Choose who you become. "All characters are adults aged 20-35. This story contains adult content between adult characters only." ```

Opening scene

Arrival Day The box is heavier than you expected. Not impossibly heavy. Not ask-someone-for-help heavy. Just heavy enough that the bottom edge keeps digging into your stomach through your oversized cream hoodie, and every few steps you have to hitch it higher against your hip before your arms give up. You stop at the foot of the stairs and stare at the building. SUMMERSIDE DORMITORY The name is stamped into a brass plaque beside the entrance in block letters that look older than half the campus. Official, Permanent, Confident. Everything here feels confident. The brick buildings. The sun-bleached banners hanging from the lamp posts. The palm trees bending lazily in the ocean breeze. The clusters of students sprawled across the grass like they were assigned their places weeks ago. Which, technically, they were. The semester started eight days ago. Eight days is nothing. Eight days is also apparently enough time for everyone at Summerside University to make friends, memorize the campus, discover which dining hall food is edible, decide which professors they hate, and establish exactly where they belong. You arrived this morning. You adjust the box again. A group of girls passes behind you, laughing about something that happened at a party last night. One of them is wearing a red-and-white Summerside cheer jacket despite the heat, the sleeves tied around her waist. Another is carrying an iced coffee with enough whipped cream to qualify as architecture. Nobody looks at you. You are grateful. You are also, in a smaller and much more embarrassing way, disappointed. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. For half a second your heart jumps. Then you remember who it probably is. You balance the box against one knee and pull the phone free. One new message. ------ MOM *Did you get inside okay?? Send me a picture of your room! ❤️* You stare at it. Your thumb hovers over the keypad. Yeah. Just got here. Delete. I’m fine. Delete. The campus is really pretty. You look up at the enormous brick dormitory, then at the two students arguing beside a vending machine through the lobby window. Delete. The cursor blinks at you. You close the phone. Later. You will answer later, when you have something worth saying. Probably. ________________________________________ The third floor smells like microwave popcorn, laundry detergent, coconut body spray, and something faintly burnt. You stop at the top of the stairs, box balanced against your hip, and check the folded piece of paper in your hand. Room 218. You look left Then You look right. You stare at the numbers. “…Okay.” You turn around. A tiny plaque beside the stairwell reads: ROOMS 201–218 → The arrow points toward the hallway you just came from. You close your eyes. It has been that kind of morning. Somewhere down the hall, a door is propped open and music is spilling out. Loud guitars, a crashing drum beat, some guy singing like his girlfriend just keyed his car. Very 2007. You don’t recognize the song. You recognize the feeling. People wander in and out of the open room without knocking. Somebody laughs hard enough to snort. Someone else shouts for a controller. A girl in pajama pants walks past you carrying a bowl of cereal even though it is nearly noon. She smiles. You instinctively look behind you. Nobody there. She was smiling at you. You manage a tiny smile back approximately three seconds too late. She has already turned the corner. Great, excellent start. You finally find 218. The door is slightly ajar. There is music playing inside too, though much quieter. Something tinny coming from computer speakers. You nudge the door open with your shoulder. The first thing you notice is the hair. Red. Not subtle auburn. Not strawberry blonde. Red. The girl sitting cross-legged on the bed nearest the window has it pulled into a messy ponytail that looks like it lost an argument with gravity twenty minutes ago. Loose strands hang around a freckled face while she bends over one foot, carefully painting her toenails a dark purple. She is wearing an oversized gray T-shirt and soft shorts. Her side of the room looks lived in. Very lived in. Band posters on the wall. A lava lamp on the desk. Clothes hanging from the back of her chair. A stack of DVDs leaning dangerously beside a tiny television. Three empty soda cans. A paperback facedown on the floor. A pair of headphones tangled around something you suspect used to be a hairbrush. Your side looks like a prison cell. Bare mattress. Bare desk. Bare wall. The girl glances up. Her eyes move from your face, to the box, to the messenger bag hanging from your shoulder. “You must be the transfer.” You tighten your grip on the cardboard. “Um.” Brilliant. She dips the brush back into the bottle. “I’m Chelsea.” “I’m Yulia.” “Cool.” She paints another nail. Silence. You wait for something else. Nothing else comes. Then, without looking up, Chelsea adds, “Don’t touch my stuff and we’ll get along.” Your fingers tighten around the box. “Oh.” She looks up. For one terrible second you wonder if you have somehow already touched something without realizing it. Then the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m kidding.” You stare at her. “Mostly.” “Oh.” Chelsea watches you for another second. “You’re gonna say ‘oh’ a lot, aren’t you?” Heat crawls into your cheeks. “No.” “Uh-huh.” “I don’t.” “You’ve done it twice.” You look down at the box. Chelsea snorts. Not cruelly. That almost makes it worse. “You can put that down, you know.” You look at the box as though you forgot you were carrying it. “Oh.” Chelsea raises an eyebrow. You immediately want the floor to open. Then she laughs, actually laughs. You hurry across the room and set the box on the bare mattress. The springs creak beneath it. Your arms feel ten pounds lighter. Inside are the parts of your life that felt important enough to bring first. Clothes. Three framed photographs you have no idea where to put. A desk lamp. Two notebooks. A little violet butterfly decoration your mother slipped into the box when you weren’t looking. And too many books. Mostly novels, some manga. Okay... A lot of manga. Chelsea is watching you unload. Her gaze stops on the stack. “Is that Nana?” Your head snaps up. She points with the nail polish brush. “The manga.” You look down. A volume is sticking halfway out of your messenger bag. “You read it?” Chelsea screws the cap onto the polish. “I own functioning eyes.” You aren’t sure what that means. She swings her legs carefully off the bed, holding her toes away from the carpet. “I’ve seen the anime.” “Oh.” Chelsea looks at you. You press your lips together. Her mouth curls upward. “You really do say it a lot.” You pull the manga free and place it on your desk. “I’m trying not to.” “Don’t. It’s kind of funny.” That might be the first kind thing anyone at Summerside has said to you. You aren’t sure it was meant as one. You decide to keep it anyway. Chelsea picks up her phone from the bed. “You transferred late?” You nod. “Family thing?” “Kind of.” She seems to notice something in your face because she doesn’t ask. Instead she drops backward onto her pillow. “That sucks.” You glance at her. She is scrolling through her phone. The conversation is apparently over. Strangely, you appreciate that. No sympathetic head tilt. No interrogation. No tell me everything. Then life continues. You unpack in silence. The room slowly becomes divided into two countries. Chelsea’s side is cluttered, colorful, careless. Yours becomes neat almost by accident. Books arranged by height. Laptop centered. Pens in the upper drawer. Clothes folded. Your little butterfly ornament sits beside your desk lamp. You consider moving it. You don’t. When you finally sit on the edge of the mattress, your gaze drifts toward the window. The courtyard below is full of people. Someone is tossing a Frisbee. Two guys are dragging a cooler toward the parking lot. A girl in a Summerside cheer uniform jogs across the courtyard, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her. She has one hand pressed to the silver necklace at her throat while she talks to another cheerleader. People seem to know her. Three separate groups wave. She waves back at all of them. You watch for a second too long. Chelsea notices. “Lauren.” You nearly jump. “What?” “The blonde.” Chelsea has not moved from her bed. “You were staring.” “I wasn’t staring.” “Sure.” You look back toward the window despite yourself. Lauren has stopped to talk to someone. Even from three stories up, there is something effortless about her. Shoulders back. Easy smile. The kind of person who seems completely certain that when she walks into a room, the room will make space. “She’s a cheerleader,” Chelsea says. “I figured.” “Everybody knows Lauren.” You glance at her. “Do you?” Chelsea looks at you like you asked whether she personally knows the president. “No.” “Oh.” Another tiny smile. You glare at her. That makes the smile bigger. Maybe living here will be survivable. Maybe. ________________________________________ Twenty-three minutes later, you realize you are late. Not might be late. Not if I walk slowly late. Late. “Crap.” Chelsea looks up from her laptop. You are halfway into your messenger bag. “What?” “My class.” “What time?” “Twelve thirty.” Chelsea glances at the glowing red numbers on her alarm clock. 12:24. You stop breathing. “Where?” “Summerside Hall.” She grimaces. That is not encouraging. “What?” “Nothing.” “Chelsea.” “It’s across campus.” Your stomach drops. “How across?” “Like…” She considers it. “Across.” You stare. She shrugs. “You should run.” You grab your bag. “Wait.” You stop. Chelsea points at your desk. “Your schedule.” You snatch the folded paper. “And your phone.” You grab that too. “And…” “Chelsea.” She grins. “Have fun.” You are already through the door. Behind you, she calls: “IF BLAKE GIVES YOU THE EYEBROW, YOU’RE DEAD!” You nearly collide with somebody in the hallway. “Sorry!” You keep going. A beat. Then you turn around while still moving. “WHAT EYEBROW?” Chelsea’s head appears through the doorway. “YOU’LL KNOW!” Fantastic. ________________________________________ Summerside University was designed by someone who hated new students. You become convinced of this approximately five minutes later. The map says Summerside Hall is beside the library. There are two libraries. The building labeled Student Services contains no services you currently need. A helpful sign reading ACADEMIC QUAD points in three directions. You walk past the same fountain twice. At 12:31, you are power-walking. At 12:34, you are jogging. At 12:36, you have accepted death. The California sun beats against the top of your head. Your long black hair keeps sticking to the back of your neck, and you regret the hoodie but refuse to take it off because then you would have to carry it. Your messenger bag slams against your hip. Something inside shifts. Probably one of the manga volumes. You really should have emptied the bag before class. You round the athletics building. The campus changes here. Fewer tables. Fewer students. The noise from the main quad becomes distant, muffled behind the thick brick walls. According to your schedule, Professor Blake’s class began seven minutes ago. You picture walking into a silent room. Thirty people turning. Professor Blake pausing mid-sentence. You have never met the man, but Chelsea’s mysterious eyebrow has already acquired mythological qualities in your imagination. You walk faster. Then you hear it. A sound. Small. Sharp. Wrong. You slow down. At first you think someone dropped something. Then you hear a voice. Male. “…the hell is wrong with you?” Your steps stop. There is another sound. A shoe scraping concrete. Then a girl’s voice. “Get off me.” Something in her tone makes the hair on your arms stand up. It isn’t theatrical anger. It isn’t a couple bickering. It isn’t friendly. You look toward the narrow walkway between the athletics building and the older brick structure beside it. Nobody else is around. Your heartbeat changes. Professor Blake’s class is eight minutes underway. You should keep walking. There are probably campus security officers. There are probably other people nearby. There are probably a dozen reasonable explanations. You take one step toward Summerside Hall. “Don’t touch me.” You stop again. The words came louder that time. You look back. Your stomach knots. You hate confrontation. You hate raised voices. You hate people looking at you when you speak. You once stood in a grocery store aisle for five full minutes because an employee was stocking cereal in front of what you needed and you didn’t want to ask him to move. This is not your problem. You are the new girl. The transfer. The quiet one. You don’t even know where your English class is. Another sound. A hard thump against brick. Your body moves before your courage arrives. You step toward the corner. Then stop again. Your hand closes around the strap of your messenger bag. Just look. That is all. Looking does not mean getting involved. Looking is safe. You lean far enough around the edge of the building to see. A girl is backed against the brick wall. Dark auburn hair, chopped unevenly around her jaw. Pale skin. Freckles. Black band T-shirt. Ripped jeans. Heavy boots. There is already a bruise forming high on one cheekbone. One hand is clenched around the strap of her bag. The other is shoved against the chest of the guy standing in front of her. He is taller. Broad-shouldered. Dark clothes. Pale eyes. One hand is braced against the wall beside her head. The other is wrapped around her wrist. Not tightly enough to look dramatic from a distance. More than tightly enough. “Let go, Keith.” Keith smiles. There is nothing friendly in it. “You make everything harder than it needs to be, Meredith.” Meredith. You know neither of them. Now they have names. That somehow makes leaving worse. Meredith yanks at her wrist. Keith tightens his grip. “Stop.” “I’m trying to talk to you.” “No. You’re trying to scare me.” His smile disappears. Something cold replaces it. “You think I need to try?” Your stomach drops. You should find someone. Security. A professor. One of the coaches inside the athletics building. Anyone who isn’t you. Meredith looks past Keith. For one second, her dark brown eyes meet yours. You freeze. She sees you. You see the exact moment she realizes someone else is there. And you see something else too. Not relief. Embarrassment. Almost shame. Like being witnessed is somehow worse. Keith follows her gaze. His head begins to turn. You pull back behind the wall. Your heart is hammering so hard you can hear it. Idiot. You press yourself against the brick. Your hands are shaking. You could leave. You could pretend you saw nothing. You could find security. You could walk straight into Blake’s class ten minutes late and spend the rest of the afternoon convincing yourself somebody else handled it. Your phone is in your pocket. Your mouth is dry. Around the corner, Keith says something too quiet to understand. Meredith answers: “Go to hell.” A slap of movement. A grunt. Then silence. You stare at the ground. There is a tiny purple butterfly drawn in marker on the corner of your schedule. Your mother must have done it. Of course she did. You swallow. You have spent most of your life becoming very good at disappearing. Quiet clothes. Quiet answers. Quiet footsteps. Books held high enough to hide behind. Messages typed and deleted until there is nothing left to send. You came to Summerside hoping that maybe a new place could make you into somebody different. That was always the fantasy, wasn’t it? New school. New room. New Yulia. As if confidence might be waiting in a cardboard box between your desk lamp and volume seven of Nana. It isn’t. You are still you. Your hands are still shaking. Your heart is still trying to climb out through your throat. You are still terrified. The only difference is that Meredith is around the corner. And she knows you saw her. You grip the strap of your bag. Professor Blake can wait, and for once, so can your fear. What do you do?

Characters

Tags: Shy School College Modern Romance LGBTQ+ FemPOV SlowBurn Angst Fluff Comedy SliceOfLife Teacher Bully Friendship EnemyToLovers HiddenIdentity SchoolLife SecondChance Smut Roommates Student

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