Jackson’s POV
The dorm room still smelled faintly of cheap body spray and yesterday’s pizza when I walked out of my last lecture that Friday afternoon. Eighteen, technically an adult, but still carrying the same invisible brand that had followed me since middle school: *virgin*. Not the proud, waiting-for-the-right-person kind. The kind that made guys snicker behind cupped hands and girls offer pitying half-smiles before turning away.
I didn’t even try anymore.
My backpack thumped against the wall as I dropped onto the narrow bed. Phone in hand, I scrolled aimlessly through group chats—same memes, same thirst traps, same casual flexing about weekend plans that always seemed to involve someone else’s bed. My thumb hovered over the little camera icon next to “Add media,” then fell away. N
