I'm Not Like Them

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The neon skyline of Las Vegas had a way of swallowing nights whole. Casinos hummed in the distance, laughter spilled from bars, and traffic lights bled red and gold across the streets. Yet inside the University of Nevada’s campus, the chaos dimmed—students shuffled between buildings, their futures tucked beneath textbooks and half-finished coffees.

Rania Isolde Veyra sat cross-legged on the grass outside the psychology building, a battered notebook balanced on her knee. Her pen hovered above the page, but her dark eyes wandered elsewhere—observing, not writing. That was her rhythm: watch first, speak later, if at all.

“Rania!”

Her head lifted, and there they were—Avery Monroe Clarke, all blonde highlights and unapologetic heels clicking against the pavement, and Chelsea Quinn Harper, red lipstick already smudged as if she had kissed the night before and dared the morning to judge her for it. Together they were a storm Rania never quite resisted, only endured.

“Saint Rania,” Chelsea sing-songed as she dropped down beside her, perfume sharp and sweet. “Why are you sitting out here alone? Don’t tell me you’re writing in that creepy notebook again.”

“It’s called taking notes,” Rania replied dryly, finally putting pen to paper. “Something you two should try in your Business Administration class instead of scrolling through dating apps.”

Avery laughed, tossing her hair with deliberate ease. “Oh, don’t be jealous just because the Ice Queen doesn’t melt for anyone. Business is networking, babe. And networking sometimes involves… extracurricular activities.”

“Clarke and Harper: Vegas’ Menace Duo,” Rania muttered, scribbling the words into the margin of her notes like a private joke.

Chelsea grinned. “Menace Duo? We should put that on a T-shirt.”

“Or a billboard,” Avery added, winking. “Two dazzling business majors, here to conquer the Strip—and drag our little psych major along whether she likes it or not.”

Rania shook her head, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the faintest tug upward. It was always like this—their laughter pried at the edges of her silence until it cracked. They teased, she resisted, and somehow the three of them fit.

***

The cafeteria of the university buzzed with its usual midday rhythm—chatter, the scrape of trays, the clang of soda machines. Students spilled across tables in clusters, some hunched over laptops, others laughing too loudly, their voices ricocheting against tiled walls.

Avery Monroe Clarke thrived in it. Noise was her oxygen.

She tossed her caramel-brown hair back with a practiced flick, her gold hoops catching the light as she slid into a chair with the kind of grace that drew glances without effort. A half-finished caramel latte dangled from her hand like an accessory rather than a drink.

“God, do you see her?” she whispered, leaning across the table to Chelsea with a conspiratorial grin. Her gaze had already found Rania across the cafeteria—alone, as always—her Psychology notes spread neatly before her like sacred text.

Chelsea Quinn Harper followed Avery’s line of sight, a playful smirk tugging at her glossed lips. “Our resident Saint Rania. Look at her, halo and all. Sitting there like she’s allergic to sunlight and bad decisions.”

Avery laughed, the sound bright and sharp enough to turn heads. She didn’t mind; attention was her currency. “She’s hopeless. We should kidnap her this weekend, drag her somewhere sinful. Club Crawl Friday. Don’t you dare say no.”

Chelsea propped her chin on her hand, eyes glittering with mischief. “Again? Avery, the last time you tried, she gave you that death stare. You know the one. The ‘I’ll haunt you in your dreams’ look.”

“She needs us,” Avery insisted, feigning dramatics with a hand to her chest. “I refuse to let her wither away in the library while the rest of us actually live.”

Chelsea twirled a strand of hair, her smirk unrepentant. “Terrible, but honest.”

Both of them glanced again at Rania, her pen moving with sharp, deliberate strokes, her world impenetrable to the chaos around her. She was a fortress in plain sight—one that made Avery itch to knock down a few walls. “Let’s face it,” Avery murmured, voice softening. “She’s different. Not like the others. And that’s why I like her. She keeps us balanced.”

Chelsea’s smirk gentled, though her tone stayed teasing. “Balanced? Or bored?”

“Both can be true.”

Chelsea leaned back, laughter spilling easily. “Well, then. Operation Corrupt the Ice Queen continues. May God have mercy on her innocent little soul.”

***

By the time the last lecture ended, the desert sky had shifted from gold to indigo, the Strip’s neon bleeding into the horizon. The three of them wove their way off campus, laughter chasing them down the sidewalk.

Their apartment sat fifteen minutes away, tucked between a laundromat and a half-abandoned diner with a neon sign that flickered uncertainly between OPEN and PEN. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was theirs—three bedrooms, thin walls, and a kitchen that always smelled faintly of burnt toast.

Avery kicked the door open with her heel, tossing her bag on the couch. “Home, sweet chaos.”

“Correction,” Chelsea declared, throwing her blazer over a chair. “Home, sweet stage. Where the magic of pre-party transformation begins.” She struck a pose in the doorway, voice dripping with theatrical flair.

Rania slipped in last, locking the door with the precision of someone who liked certainty. “Or,” she said, setting her books neatly on the coffee table, “home, sweet library. Where some of us try to graduate before thirty.”

Chelsea groaned. “Nun Rania, your textbooks aren’t going anywhere. But Friday night in Vegas? She waits for no one.”

“I’m serious,” Avery called from the kitchen, already pouring herself a glass of something stronger than water. “Tonight, we’re going out. New club opening on Fremont. It’s basically illegal if we don’t show up.”

“I have readings.”

“You always have readings.” Avery leaned against the counter, glass in hand, grin sly. “Live a little, Isolde. No one remembers their GPA when they’re forty—but they remember nights like this.”

Chelsea sprawled on the couch, kicking off her heels. “Hopeless. Our Ice Queen needs thawing.”

Rania curled her legs beneath her, unmoved. This was their ritual: they begged, she declined, they whined louder. A cycle. A rhythm. Her silence against their noise.

“You two go,” she said finally, her tone flat but not unkind. “Clarke and Harper: Vegas’ Menace Duo. You don’t need me to ruin your fun.”

The girls exchanged a look, then burst into laughter.

“Fine,” Avery declared, raising her glass in a mock toast. “To Rania, the Queen of No.”

“To Saint Rania,” Chelsea added, clutching her chest with feigned reverence, “who watches us from her ivory tower while we dance our sins away.”

Rania rolled her eyes, but this time the smile was undeniable.

In an hour, they would be gone—glitter in their hair, perfume trailing behind them, voices echoing into the night. She’d be left with the hum of the refrigerator and her carefully marked notes. And that was fine. She liked quiet. She needed it.

But even as she gathered her things and retreated to her room, a shiver slipped through her bones—quiet, inexplicable. The kind of whisper that warned her the comfort of their little apartment would not stay untouched for long.