The student center was still buzzing when they came back after the Indian Students’ Association meet.

  Ravi was wiping oil off his fingers from the st samosa, and Jorge had that look of possibility on his face again - the same one he’d had when he heard the first bars of salsa echoing through the student center hallway earlier.

  “Listen,” Jorge said, pausing near the gss doors of another room. “That’s Latin music.”

  “I don’t recognize it,” Bharath admitted.

  “You wouldn’t,” Jorge grinned. “That’s salsa. Maybe a bit of cumbia. That’s my world.”

  Above the door, a wide banner read in bold letters:

  ?Bienvenidos a Todos! Hispanic Student Association – Welcome Social

  People flowed in and out casually, greeting one another with cheek kisses, fist bumps, and easy, uninhibited ughter. The scent of lime, tamarind, and warm pastries drifted through the air.

  Jorge practically vibrated with joy.

  Ravi looked uncertain. “Are we crashing?”

  “They said all are welcome,” Jorge said. “And after I spent an hour being surrounded by samosas and sng I didn’t understand? You guys owe me.”

  “Fair enough,” Bharath said with a tired smile. “Let’s go.”

  The room was alive - dimly lit, thrumming with low bass and bursts of ughter. A DJ booth at the far end was bsting a reggaetón remix, and a circle of students danced near the speakers, hips moving like they had their own sentience. The scent of fried snacks and body spray lingered in the air. Samosas and Sprite never felt so exotic.

  There were more girls here. More smiles. More skin.

  Ravi scanned the crowd and let out a dramatic sigh. “Wow. They do exist.”

  Bharath raised an eyebrow. “Did we just discover the mythical female engineering majors?”

  “I doubt they are all engineering majors”, said Jorge confidently.

  “Only a 3 is to 1 ratio here,” Ravi whispered in awe. “This must be what heaven feels like.”

  They gravitated toward the wall like magnetic filings, sticking close, not quite ready to wade into the social chaos. They stood in a small, unspoken triangle - Bharath, Ravi, and Jorge - three brown penguins in a room full of confident gazelles.

  But Jorge was already starting to move.

  He caught sight of a familiar rhythm, a familiar cadence. Spanish. Across the room, a group of Latino students stood chatting animatedly by the soda cooler, and without missing a beat, Jorge drifted toward them like a fish returning to familiar waters.

  Bharath watched him go, mildly impressed.

  “He really does walk like he belongs,” Bharath murmured.

  Ravi popped some kind of fried pntain in his mouth. “Must be nice to have a native tongue in common with so many other countries. So many more options in terms of people to speak with.”

  “Mine’s Tamil,” Bharath said dryly. “This is my fourth nguage. Maybe sixth if you count C or Java.”

  Ravi grinned. “Respect.”

  But ten minutes ter, Jorge reappeared - not swaggering, but subdued. Drink in hand, brow furrowed, like someone who’d just walked into the wrong wedding and tried to pretend it was their cousin’s.

  “They thought I was Korean-American,” Jorge said as he approached.

  Bharath blinked. “You’re literally wearing a Bolivia fg pin.”

  “I know! I even spoke Spanish - fluent Spanish. They just nodded politely like I was doing a cute party trick.”

  “They didn’t believe you?” Ravi asked.

  “Oh, they believed me eventually. But then came the second test.”

  “Second test?” Bharath asked.

  “They asked me who my favorite Latin artists were,” Jorge said with a sigh. “So I said Selena and Daddy Yankee. You know. Safe cssics.”

  Ravi visibly winced. “Is that bad?”

  “I don’t know the cultural equivalent to compare”, shrugged Jorge. “Yeah it’s bad”.

  “And then one girl ughed when I said my mom makes kimchi empanadas. She literally said - ‘Wait, so you’re like Korean with seasoning?’”

  Ravi choked on his soda. “She did not.”

  “She did,” Jorge confirmed, deadpan. “They called me ‘Bolikorean.’ I don’t think I’ve been insulted like that in real life.”

  Bharath offered him a drink from the table in solemn silence. Jorge took it like a soldier being handed a medal after a lost battle.

  “So… not the warm welcome you were expecting,” Ravi said.

  “I thought I’d finally feel like I fit somewhere,” Jorge muttered. “Turns out, even here, there’s a pecking order. You’re not from the right country. You don’t dance the right way. Your grandparents came from the wrong coast.”

  Bharath leaned back against the wall. “You know, when I got called a FOB earlier today, I thought I’d peaked in humiliation.”

  “I got ughed at for listening to the Backstreet Boys,” Ravi added helpfully.

  “I like the Backstreet Boys!” Bharath said.

  They all paused.

  Then burst into ughter - the kind that starts as a chuckle and builds into something belly-deep and breathless.

  It drew a few gnces from across the room, but none of them cared. For the first time that evening, they didn’t feel out of pce. Not because the crowd had accepted them - but because they had.

  Jorge exhaled and looked at his half-empty cup. “You know what? Tonight I’m not Korean. Or Bolivian. Or even ‘Bolikorean.’ I’m just a guy with great hair and decent rhythm.”

  “Hell yeah,” Ravi said, raising his soda can.

  Bharath grinned. “To surviving elitist desis and judgmental Latinos.”

  “To cultural orphans,” Jorge said.

  “To the brown boy alliance,” Ravi added.

  They clinked cups and cans together with the solemnity of a sacred pact, ughing over their shared misadventures and mutual misfit status. For a fleeting moment, the world felt smaller - less intimidating. They weren’t from the right cities, didn’t say the right names, didn’t wear the right shoes. But they had each other. And that, for tonight, was enough.

  Bharath leaned back, soda can pressed against his palm, letting the music thump through his chest as his eyes drifted zily across the room - not searching for anything in particur. Just observing.

  And that’s when he saw her.

  She stood by one of the folding tables near the back, half-shadowed by a pilr, arms crossed, hips tilted, one foot tapping absently to the beat. A vision in tight, high-waisted jeans and a cropped white top that clung to her body like it was designed by divine intervention. Her fwless caramel skin glowed under the warm yellow lights, catching the eye like the sun on still water. Her hair spilled in long, effortless waves down her back, and when she brushed it away from her face, the silver ring on her finger fshed like punctuation.

  Bharath’s breath caught.

  Not because he meant to stare - but because his brain stopped working for a second.

  She looked like someone pulled out of a music video and dropped into this hall by mistake. Someone you see from across the room and convince yourself must be famous. Someone who doesn’t just exist in the same timeline as you - until she does.

  And then, somehow, impossibly - she turned.

  Their eyes met.

  Her expression shifted instantly - a flicker of recognition? Disapproval? Amusement?

  Bharath couldn’t tell.

  But she had definitely seen him.

  And then… she took a step forward.

  Her face hardened instantly.

  Bharath blinked.

  Another step.

  Then a voice - low, sharp, fast, and furious - burst out of her.

  “?Qué carajos te pasa? ?Por qué me miras así, idiota?”

  Bharath stiffened.

  He hadn’t understood a word, but the tone was unmistakable.

  Anger. Real anger.

  The girl was gring at him like he’d insulted her ancestors. Her hands were up now, gesturing furiously.

  “I - I’m sorry,” Bharath stammered. “I didn’t mean - I wasn’t - ”

  But she was already talking over him, faster, louder.

  “?Qué, crees que soy una especie de espectáculo para ti? ?Te divierte mirar fijamente a s chicas como si no tuvieran cerebro?”

  “I don’t - I don’t understand - ”

  “What’s wrong with you? Can’t speak? No habs espa?ol, pero tienes ojos, no?”

  Ravi had quietly disappeared.

  Bharath was frozen. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

  Every eye nearby had turned toward them - the DJ’s track still pying, but somehow quieter now, muffled by the tension thickening around him.

  And just when it felt like things couldn't get worse -

  “?Whoa, tranqui! Hey!”

  Jorge slipped into the space between them like a matador sent by fate, hands raised in an open, calming gesture.

  The girl turned sharply. “Qué?”

  “He’s not trying to be a creep, okay? Chill.” Jorge’s voice was steady but respectful. “He’s new. Like really new. First time in America. He doesn’t even speak Spanish. He didn’t mean to stare. He just doesn’t know how to handle people like you yet.”

  “People like me?” she repeated, eyebrow arching.

  Jorge caught himself. “I meant - you’re beautiful. Striking. I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d stare too. He’s just... overwhelmed.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes, but her stance softened a little.

  “You’re defending your boy?” she asked, switching effortlessly into clear English.

  “Yes. Because I’ve lived with him for two days and he’s the most clueless, genuine human I’ve met. He probably thinks ‘spicy Latina’ is a food category.”

  Bharath managed a strangled sound that might’ve been a chuckle.

  The girl exhaled slowly, running a hand through her long hair.

  “I thought he was Latino,” she said, the anger draining from her voice. “Looked brown. Just assumed he was another wannabe with a soft voice and a hard-on.”

  Jorge turned to Bharath and gestured. “Dude, introduce yourself.”

  Bharath swallowed and stepped forward.

  “I’m Bharath,” he said. “From Chennai, in India. And... I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I genuinely didn’t understand what you were saying. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just been a long day, and I got caught up. You’re... well... kind of hard not to notice.”

  The girl studied him.

  Her expression was unreadable for a moment - but then her mouth twitched. A smile, subtle and reluctant.

  “Okay,” she said. “That was actually kind of sweet.”

  She extended her hand. “Marisol. Cuban-American. Born and raised in Marietta.”

  Bharath took her hand - warm, strong, a firm shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Marisol.”

  Jorge grinned and cpped Bharath’s shoulder. “And I’m Jorge. Korean-Bolivian. La Paz via Seoul. Kind of a one-man U.N.”

  “Wow,” she said, eyebrows lifting. “You guys are like a walking diversity brochure.”

  “We try,” Jorge said.

  Marisol looked at Bharath again. “I really did think you were another Latin guy pretending not to speak Spanish so he could pull the ‘Oh no, teach me your nguage’ crap.”

  “That’s... a thing?”

  “It’s always a thing,” she said with a groan. “These guys walk up like they’ve never seen a woman before and assume because they go to Tech now, I should just fall at their feet. It’s exhausting.”

  Jorge nodded in understanding. “Latino dudes here are on extra-cringe mode. They think an Engineering major makes them irresistible.”

  “God, yes,” Marisol said, exasperated. “As if being able to pass a data structures quiz means I owe them a night out.”

  Bharath grinned. “For what it’s worth, I’m not trying to get into your pants. I don’t think I’d fit in them.”

  Marisol blinked, then burst out ughing.

  “That’s the most honest thing I’ve heard tonight.”

  He smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I’m just trying to survive orientation week.”

  “Same,” she said. “I’m a freshman too.”

  “You’re kidding,” Jorge said. “You’ve got uppercss energy.”

  “Yeah, well,” she said, brushing her hair back, “it’s called having to grow up fast. I live with my mom and my sister - single-parent household, tight money, lots of expectations. I’ve been fighting off creeps since I was fourteen. By the time I got here, I thought I’d finally find some chill.”

  She shook her head.

  “But the guys here? Same energy. Just... now with access to resume temptes.”

  Bharath ughed. “That sounds... horrifying.”

  Marisol chuckled. “It is. You’re lucky. You’ve still got that innocence.”

  Bharath shrugged. “Maybe it’s just jet g.”

  “Maybe you’re just decent,” she said, eyeing him more softly now.

  A quiet moment passed. The music had picked up again. Someone near the corner started dancing. A tray of mini churros was being passed around.

  Then Marisol cocked her head. “So what’re you guys studying?”

  “Computer Science,” Bharath said.

  “Same,” Jorge added.

  “No way,” she said. “Me too.”

  Bharath blinked. “Really?”

  “Yep. I got pced into the CS 1331 section at 10 a.m. on Mondays.”

  “That’s mine too,” Jorge said.

  “Same here!” Bharath added.

  They all looked at each other.

  “Well,” Jorge said. “Looks like fate wants us to debug Java together.”

  Marisol ughed. “As long as no one tries to hit on me over group projects, I’m good.”

  Just then, Ravi reappeared, holding two napkins with something fried inside.

  “Oh thank God,” he said. “You’re still alive.”

  “Ravi,” Bharath said. “Meet Marisol.”

  Ravi’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she said, half-amused.

  Jorge added, “She already yelled at Bharath. We’re past introductions.”

  “She what?”

  “It’s fine,” Bharath said quickly. “I deserved it.”

  “You really didn’t,” Marisol said. “But apology accepted.”

  They stood together for a bit, talking about csses, dorm food, and the impossibility of getting into any CS elective without waking up at dawn during course registration.

  Ravi warmed up slowly. Marisol’s beauty and presence had a way of demanding respect, not performance. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She didn’t care for social maneuvering.

  That, in itself, was oddly attractive.

  Bharath noticed something too - she talked with her whole face. Her eyebrows arched when she made a point. Her nose crinkled when she ughed. Her hands punctuated everything. It was like watching a symphony of gestures.

  He liked that she wasn’t trying to be sweet.

  She was just... herself.

  As the evening wore on and the crowd thinned, someone handed Bharath a small fn on a pstic pte. Jorge got a guava soda. Marisol sipped on horchata through a red straw.

  Ravi turned to Bharath. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking at Marisol from the corner of his eye. “Better than okay.”

  Marisol gnced at him. “You still staring?”

  He flushed. “Sorry - ”

  She smiled. “Rex. You’re cute when you panic.”

  Jorge nearly choked on his soda.

  By the time they said their goodbyes and stepped out into the night air, the stars were sharper overhead. The walk back to Smith and Cloudman felt easier. Like the world was beginning to crack open in unexpected, messy, beautiful ways.

  As they reached the dorm steps, Marisol said, “See you Monday morning, CS 1331.”

  “Definitely,” Bharath said.

  She looked at him a second longer than necessary.

  “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Then she turned and walked away, her braid swaying, her silhouette lit by the amber glow of the campus lights.

  By the time Bharath and Jorge trudged back to Smith Hall, the dorm had quietened into that post-orientation haze - not asleep, but definitely winding down. Somewhere down the hall, a door smmed. Someone’s portable speaker thumped out faint R&B. The hallway smelled like microwaved noodles.

  They pushed open the door to Room 202 and found Tyrel sprawled across his bunk, propped up on one elbow, watching a flickering TV across from his bed.

  On screen: a brightly colored living room, a guy in neon clothes dancing dramatically.

  Tyrel didn’t look away. “Y’all survive your cultural field trips?”

  “Barely,” Jorge muttered, dropping his bag onto his chair. “Bharath nearly got murdered,” he said with a smirk. “He’s famous now.”

  Tyrel looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Damn. What happened?”

  “Long story,” Bharath said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I made a friend.”

  Tyrel grinned. “You got a number?”

  “No.”

  “Then you made a lesson.”

  Jorge chuckled and flopped down on his bed. “What are you watching?”

  “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” Tyrel said. “Cssic.”

  “I love this show,” Jorge said immediately, eyes lighting up. “They dubbed this in Bolivia. I used to watch it with my cousins. You know the Carlton Dance?”

  Tyrel smirked. “Do I know the Carlton - boy, I invented the Carlton.”

  He hopped up, mimicked the goofy sway-and-snap move from the show, and sat back down ughing.

  Bharath stared at the screen, bewildered. “What is this? Is that… Will Smith?”

  Jorge gasped. “You’ve never seen the Fresh Prince?”

  Bharath shook his head. “Should I have?”

  Tyrel threw a pillow at him. “Yes. Yes, you should have.”

  “It never aired in India!”

  “It’s a rite of passage, mi hermano,” Jorge said, scooting forward. “Trust me - it’s got everything. Funny uncles, dumb cousins, rich vs. poor, identity issues, friendship. You’ll love it.”

  Tyrel pointed at the screen. “This episode right here - Will gets stuck in a jail cell on vacation because Carlton tries to py gangster. Gold.”

  Bharath sat cross-legged on his bunk, watching cautiously as Will Smith broke the fourth wall with a raised eyebrow and exaggerated shrug.

  Okay… it was funny.

  As the show ran, the boys slowly unwound. Tyrel peeled off his socks. Jorge stretched until his spine popped. Bharath massaged his sore shoulder, thinking back to Marisol’s eyes and the way she’d said Don’t be a stranger.

  Eventually, Jorge stood up and grabbed his towel. “I’m setting an arm for 4 a.m.”

  “For what?” Bharath asked.

  “To shower. No chance I’m walking in there naked with five dudes lined up again.”

  Bharath nodded immediately. “Set mine too.”

  “You two scheduling your nudity now?” Tyrel grinned.

  Jorge ignored him. “You coming to the gym tomorrow?”

  Bharath blinked. “You’re going?”

  “Hell yeah,” Jorge said. “We’re scrawny. Well I am… you are decent… but you may want to build some muscle if you want to survive those showers with dignity?”

  Bharath groaned. “You’re right. Fine. Gym. Tomorrow.”

  “Five-thirty,” Jorge said. “No backing out.”

  Tyrel snorted. “Y’all are wild.”

  Jorge pointed at him. “You got abs. You don’t get to talk.”

  “True.”

  As they settled into bed, lights dimmed and the familiar hum of the dorm returned - distant footsteps, soft conversation, an occasional door creak.

  Bharath y in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin in zy circles.

  He had survived. His first full day in America.

  He had been yelled at, ughed at, ignored, surprised, overwhelmed.

  He’d eaten cereal that looked and tasted like pstic. Met the most beautiful girl in his life and was promptly forgotten. Met another beautiful girl, got yelled at, and somehow made her ugh.

  And now, he had new friends, an awkward shower pn, a gym resolution, and a TV show about a guy from West Philly living in Bel Air. It wasn’t the America he had imagined.

  But maybe that was okay.

  He closed his eyes, the ceiling fan's zy whir lulling him toward sleep. Tomorrow brought the real unknown: actual csses. CS 1331 at 10 a.m. It was the same lecture hall where Marisol would be sitting just a few rows away, probably looking effortlessly cool while he tried not to panic over the sylbus.

  Would she remember him as the clueless guy who stared too long? Or worse, forget him entirely?

  And what about the gym at 5:30? He pictured himself fumbling with weights while Tyrel ughed and Jorge spotting him like a protective older brother.

  Whatever it was, maybe America was finally starting to feel like the adventure he’d hoped for.