She wrote love letters she'd never send.
Folded them into perfect squares, slid them between the pages of her favorite books, and smiled at the idea that maybe someday, someone would find them and just… understand.
The Advocate was quiet but never passive. Her words weren't loud, but they mattered. Every sentence she spoke felt like it had been filtered through three layers of thought and two layers of emotion. She didn't speak often, but when she did, the room shifted.
She believed in people. Painfully so.
Even the ones who didn't deserve it.
Even when it broke her.
In Room 304, she was the emotional compass. Not the cheerleader or the fixer, but the one who *saw* you when you didn't know you needed to be seen. The one who looked into your silence and said, "Hey. You don't have to hold that alone."
Her kindness wasn't cute. It was courageous.
She'd been that way since childhood.
The kid who stayed behind to help clean up after art class.
The one who told the teacher when someone was being bullied.
The one who cried over novels because the characters deserved better endings.
High school had tested her idealism. She fell for people too fast, trusted too easily. Got burned more than once. But she refused to grow bitter.
Instead, she became discerning.
Still hopeful. But careful.
College gave her more space to bloom. The dorm felt like a patchwork quilt of energies, and somehow she stitched herself into it without demanding the spotlight. Spark called her the team's "emotional encryption specialist." Debater said she had "soul Wi-Fi."
She just smiled and shook her head.
She kept a journal with three sections: dreams, memories, and prayers.
Not religious, but spiritual.
She believed the universe whispered to those who whispered back.
Tonight, the group had gone out for dinner. A rare coordinated effort. She wore her favorite cardigan, the one with the hidden pocket and the stitched heart near the sleeve. Her hair was half-up, her eyes bright but cautious.
She walked with Mediator and Guardian, letting the rhythm of their chatter fill the space between her thoughts.
At the restaurant, she chose the seat by the window. Always. Something about seeing the world in motion helped her think clearer.
They ordered too many fries. Laughed too loud.
Debater made some ridiculous claim about how romantic comedies were just emotional propaganda, and she leaned in, eyebrow raised.
"Or," she said softly, "they're proof that people are still brave enough to want happy endings."
He didn't have a response.
He just blinked. Then smiled.
Later, as the group trickled out onto the street under string lights and a violet sky, she lingered.
Logician walked beside her. Hands in pockets, eyes on the stars.
"You always look like you're holding onto some secret," he said quietly.
"I am," she replied. "Lots of them."
He didn't press.
She appreciated that.
Back at the dorm, she placed her leftovers in the fridge and whispered goodnights to whoever was still awake.
She reached her door, hesitated.
Turned.
Debater stood at the end of the hall, about to disappear into his room.
She called out. "Hey."
He turned.
"Good night."
He gave a mock bow. "Sleep with at least one philosophical paradox, my lady."
She laughed.
Inside her room, she lit a candle, pulled out her journal, and began a new letter. This one wasn't about heartbreak. Or longing.
This one was about hope.
She folded it carefully and tucked it into a book titled *Brave Enough*.
Then she whispered something only the universe could hear.
And turned off the light.