Sophie goes missing

The silence of the university library was usually a comfort to Quinn, a rhythmic backbeat to her own thoughts. But today, the silence felt heavy, punctuated only by the repetitive ticking of the grandfather clock near the circulation desk. For the second time this week, the chair across from her was empty.

Sophie Lang was never late. She was the human equivalent of a Swiss watch—reliable, predictable, and deeply devoted to their shared study hours. Since trivia night, however, Sophie had vanished into thin air.

Quinn pushed her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose, her dark, curly hair spilling over her shoulders as she looked around the mahogany-clad room. Seeing no sign of her friend, Quinn sighed and packed her bag. She couldn't focus. Her mind kept drifting to Sophie’s increasingly fragile state.

On her way out, Quinn spotted a familiar Caesar cut in the theology section. Noah Sullivan was leaning over a heavy tome, looking every bit the picture of studious purity.

"Noah," Quinn said, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet stacks.

Noah looked up, offering a polite, distant smile. The purity wristband on his arm caught the light. "Oh, hello, Quinn. Looking for more trivia facts?"

"I'm looking for Sophie," Quinn said, skipping the pleasantries. "She’s missed our last two sessions. Have you seen her?"

Noah shrugged, his expression remaining maddeningly placid. "I haven't. We spoke briefly after service yesterday, but she seemed… preoccupied. Did you check the library? She usually lives here."

"I’m literally standing in the library, Noah," Quinn retorted, her patience thinning. "She isn't here. Aren't you worried? She seemed really down after you guys argued on Tuesday."

Noah sighed, a soft, patronizing sound. "Sophie is just going through a period of reflection, Quinn. We’ve committed to a path of discipline. Sometimes that requires solitude. I’m sure she’s fine."

He turned his attention back to his book, dismissing her without a second thought. Quinn felt a surge of irritation. Noah’s "sacred" approach to their relationship often felt less like devotion and more like emotional neglect.

Quinn didn't go back to her dorm. Instead, she headed toward the girls’ residential wing. In her bag sat a peace offering—a heavy, thick paperback she’d picked up at the campus bookstore earlier. It was the latest release from Sophie’s favorite "guilty pleasure" author, a high-fantasy romance that Violet had pointed out.

"Trust me," Violet had said with a wink. "It’s 80% smut, 20% dragons. Just what the girl needs to stop thinking about Saint Noah for five minutes."

Quinn reached Sophie’s door and knocked softly. "Sophie? It’s Quinn. I brought snacks and a peace offering."

A long silence followed. Quinn was about to knock again when the lock clicked. The door creaked open just a few inches.

Sophie looked terrible. Her mousy-brown hair was escaping its messy bun in frantic wisps, and her wire-rimmed glasses were smudged. But it was her choice of dress—or lack thereof—that made Quinn blink.

Sophie was wearing a pair of incredibly short, loose PJ shorts. Because of her wide hips and round, bouncy bum, the fabric barely clung to her, the hem riding up to expose the soft curve of her cheeks. Above, a thin, white tank top struggled valiantly against her massive E-cup breasts. The soft, heavy weight of her bust strained the fabric, the lack of a bra making her vulnerability feel tactile.

"Quinn," Sophie whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I just… I couldn't get out of bed."

"Oh, Soph," Quinn breathed, stepping inside.

The room was a disaster. Sophie, usually the neatest person Quinn knew, had let the space fall into disarray. Empty boxes of Kraft Dinner and crumpled instant-meal wrappers were strewn across her desk next to her prayer journals. It smelled of stale air and sadness.

"You haven't been eating real food," Quinn noted, clearing a space on the bed.

"I’m not hungry," Sophie said, hugging herself, her arms pressing against the sides of her breasts, further emphasizing their volume. "I feel… heavy. And not just because of the pasta."

Quinn reached into her bag. "Here. I know you’ve been waiting for the sequel."

She handed over the book. Sophie’s eyes, red-rimmed from crying, suddenly widened. Her fingers brushed the embossed cover. "The Obsidian Throne? But… this hasn't even hit the main shelves yet! How did you—"

"Violet has a 'friend' at the bookstore," Quinn said with a small smile.

Sophie clutched the book to her chest—right between her massive cleavage. For a moment, a genuine spark of light returned to her eyes. "Thank you. Truly. I’ve been reading the fan forums for weeks just to feel something."

"He won't even hold my hand for more than a minute," Sophie whispered twenty minutes later.

They were sitting on the edge of the bed. Quinn had managed to get Sophie to drink some water.

"He says he’s protecting me," Sophie continued, her head bowed. "He says that my body is a temple and he doesn't want to defile it before the 'appointed time.' But Quinn… I feel like he doesn't even see the temple. I feel like he’s bored by it. Like he’s disgusted by how much I want him."

"Sophie, look at me," Quinn said firmly. "Noah is… Noah. He has this idea of how things should be, and he’s incredibly stubborn. It’s not that you aren't desirable. Anyone with eyes can see you’re stunning."

"Then why does he look at a history textbook with more passion than he looks at me?" Sophie’s voice rose, a sob catching in her throat. "I try to be good. I wear the baggy sweaters. I wear the wristband. But then I lie here at night and I read these books and I feel like I'm rotting from the inside out with want."

Just then, the door swung open without a knock.

"Did someone say 'want'?" Violet strutted into the room, looking like a million dollars in a tight red crop top and denim shorts that showed off her thick, round ass. "Because I want margaritas and a giant plate of nachos, and I’m not taking no for an answer."

Violet stopped, taking in the scene. Her expression softened instantly. She walked over and wrapped Sophie in a massive, perfume-scented hug. "Oh, honey. You look like you’ve been through the wringer. Is it the Saint again?"

Sophie nodded into Violet’s shoulder.

"Right. That’s it. We’re going to The Rusty Anchor," Violet declared. "It’s Friday night. We’re getting out of this cave."

"I can't," Sophie protested, gesturing to her revealing PJs. "I’m a mess."

"So change! Put on your 'I’m a modest girl' armor if you have to, but we are leaving."

The Rusty Anchor was a local family-style restaurant that turned into a lively pub atmosphere after 8:00 PM. Sophie had retreated back into her comfort zone: an oversized, olive-green sweater and a navy skirt that hit her ankles. Despite the layers, her curvaceous silhouette was impossible to fully mask, the sway of her hips drawing eyes as they were led to a booth.

The night was supposed to be a distraction, and Violet was a master of it.

"Oh, hello there," Violet purred as a young, slightly flustered waiter approached their table. She leaned forward, her bust practically spilling over the laminate tabletop. "I’m Violet. And what’s your name, handsome?"

"I'm… I'm Marcus," the waiter stammered, his eyes darting everywhere but Violet’s face.

"Well, Marcus, we’re having a bit of a crisis," Violet said, reaching out to playfully touch his forearm. Her long, manicured nails trailed over his skin. "My friend here has been stood up by the most boring man in the world, and we need the strongest appetizers you’ve got. And maybe a little extra attention? You look like you know how to take care of a lady."

She gave Marcus a slow, exaggerated wink. The poor boy turned bright red, nodding frantically before scurrying away.

Quinn chuckled, adjusting her glasses. "You're going to give that boy a heart attack, Vi."

"A little flirtation never killed anyone," Violet said, turning back to Sophie. "See? That’s how it’s done. You remind them that you’re the prize, not the other way around."

Sophie offered a small, genuine smile. "I don't think I could ever be that… bold."

"You don't have to be," Quinn said softly. "But you should know that you could be. You have that power, Sophie."

For the next hour, they talked about everything except Noah. They talked about the erotic book Quinn had bought, with Violet giving graphic, hilarious summaries of the tropes Sophie could expect. Sophie laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days. The weight on her chest seemed to lift, if only slightly.

The walk back to the frat house was chilly. The night air was crisp, and the three girls walked close together. Sophie often walked them home before heading to her own dorm.

As they turned the corner toward the frat row, the usual Friday night bass began to rumble through the pavement.

"Sounds like Chad’s thrown a spontaneous rager," Violet said, rolling her eyes but looking secretly pleased. "He promised me he’d keep it quiet tonight. That man lies like a rug."

"We can just go through the side door," Quinn suggested, noticing Sophie tensing up.

"No, let’s see if we can snag some of their better snacks first," Violet insisted, leading them toward the front entrance.

As they stepped into the foyer, the smell of cheap beer and expensive cologne hit them. The main living area was packed. Music was blaring—something high-energy and heavy on the drums. In the center of the room, the furniture had been pushed back to create a circle.

The brothers were cheering, a rhythmic, guttural sound.

"Go on! Yeah!"

They pushed through the crowd, Quinn trying to shield Sophie from the jostling bodies. They reached the edge of the circle and stopped dead.

Noah was sitting on the main leather sofa.

He wasn't reading. He wasn't praying.

A woman—a professional dancer, judging by the minimal sequins and the practiced ease of her movements—was straddling him. She was giving him a private, intense lap dance in front of the entire house. Her hands were in his blonde hair, and his hands… Noah’s hands, the ones that refused to touch Sophie’s waist, were firmly planted on the stripper’s hips.

Noah’s head was tilted back, his eyes half-closed, a look of pure, primal gratification on his face. He wasn't pulling away. He wasn't reciting scripture. He was leaning into it, his body reacting visibly to the woman’s movements against him.

The cheering grew louder as the woman leaned down to whisper something in his ear, her chest pressing against his button-down shirt. Noah laughed—a low, husky sound Sophie had never heard—and gripped the woman tighter.

Sophie felt the world tilt.

The air in the room suddenly felt like it was being sucked out by a vacuum. The hypocrisy was a physical blow, sharper than any slap. It wasn't about the "sanctity" of the body. It wasn't about "waiting."

Noah had desires. He had fire. He just didn't want to spend it on her.

"Noah?" Sophie’s voice was a tiny, broken thread, completely drowned out by the music.

But he didn't see her. He was too busy watching the dancer’s hips move.

Quinn saw it first. She saw the way Sophie’s face went from pale to a ghostly, translucent white. She saw the way Sophie’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming with a sudden, violent flood of tears.

"Sophie, wait—" Quinn reached out, but she was too late.

Sophie turned and bolted. She pushed through the wall of frat brothers, her oversized sweater snagging on a sleeve, her heavy skirts tripping her up as she scrambled for the exit.

She burst out into the night air, her lungs burning. She didn't stop. She ran past the library, past the chapel, past every place she had ever sat and prayed for her relationship.

She reached the darkened corner of the quad, collapsing against a cold stone bench. The image of Noah’s hands on that woman burned behind her eyelids.

She wasn't a temple to him. She wasn't even a destination. She was just a girl he kept on a shelf while he enjoyed the rest of the world.

Sophie curled into a ball, her massive bust heaving with the **** of her sobs. The purity wristband felt like a shackle, cold and mocking against her skin. She reached down, her fingers trembling, and for the first time in three years, she didn't just adjust the band.

She gripped it, the plastic digging into her skin, her heart shattering into a thousand jagged pieces in the dark.