It's pretty obvious, without even trying, that Vancouver is hands-down the best city in Canada. If Canada were a high school, Vancouver would be that popular guy everyone loves, yet it never seems to get to his head. He's on all the sports teams, is passionate about environmental issues, and is just so naturally beautiful it hurts. And so, like every girl to ever walk this planet, I've always dreamt of visiting Vancity. I've wanted to dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean; stroll along the seawall of Stanley Park; feel the burn in my hamstrings after hiking the famous Grouse Grind.

That's what I would have done if I were a tourist.

The fact that I was accepted for journalism at one of the best universities in Canada still has me shaken to the core. I can't believe that I, Nova Jane Elliot, am going to be living here for the next two years. When I first received my letter of acceptance and read it with my mom by my side, we both found ourselves in a fit of pure shock. It was sheer insanity. I applied for the university thinking that my work would never have enough originality or quality to be chosen, but it appears I was wrong. Things simply fell into place after that: I was assigned a dorm room, received my schedule for the winter semester, managed to find a job at a bakery on campus, and I even found a gym that is solely dedicated to spin classes in the downtown area.

With one earbud in, my attention partially focused on the music playing and half on the guidance counsellor that's showing me to my dorm room building, I try my hardest not to get distracted by the boldness of the mountains that surround the city. Moving from a small town in Alberta, where everything is focused on oil and how harsh the winters are, to a huge, mountainous city like Vancouver is almost overwhelming. But I like it. There's something alluring about visiting a place you've never been; nobody knows who you are or what your past holds. You're just another stranger walking amongst other strangers.

It's Saturday, and the campus is abundant with students all dressed in warm clothes suitable for the chilly weather. As we walk past a group of students, I catch snippets of complaints about how cold and depressing the weather is. I roll my eyes. We obviously have different views on winter weather. Yes, it is quite chilly, but it's nothing compared to the winters I grew up with. And my current attire proves it; I'm wearing a thin red sweater beneath my worn leather jacket, grey skinny jeans, and black ankle boots. There's no toque on my head and there are no gloves on my hands. My only accessories are the denim backpack that's slung over my shoulder and the suitcase trailing behind me.

"Well, here we are," the guidance counsellor says.

I blink and look up. Her exceptionally high-pitched voice is drowned out by my favourite band, but no matter how loud the volume, I would probably be able to hear her halfway across campus. Her tone is irritatingly painful. It almost makes my ears want to bleed.

I'm not particularly thrilled to be around someone who reminds me of a pixie that's high on sugar, but I needed someone to show me my building so I could get settled before the winter semester officially begins. I've been trying my hardest to smile, to grin so that I don't have to provide reasoning as to why I'm not a social person and basically repel every person that approaches me.

I was never like this before – hiding my emotions, not wanting to partake in social events, and carefully wading through life with very few interactions. I used to be outgoing, humorous, and social. That all changed over one year ago, when I was twenty and my boyfriend, who was also my best friend since kindergarten, committed suicide.

In the weeks and months following his death, I was haunted by what happened. I didn't understand how there once was a time when every cell in his body seemed to be a celebration of life and laughter, when every moment to him was an opportunity to make someone laugh, to pull a prank, or to distract them from whatever life problem they were facing. Carter's personality was like being injected with liquid sunshine – he was always joyous and filled with childlike wonder. You could never be in a bad mood around him.

The most confusing thing was how all of that, all of that light and positive energy, escaped him so quickly. Almost like snuffing out a candle. I had never noticed any symptoms of depression during the months before, but maybe he had been too good at hiding his emotions from everyone around him.

Including me.

Carter's death was agonizing; I wondered why he did it, I was angry, I blamed myself for his choices, and I felt sick inside. He slipped through my fingers, like I had been trying to hold on to water. I was thrown into a world of despair that I hated living in. Simple tasks felt impossible to do, and there were days where I would attempt to distract myself. Sometimes it worked, but only for a brief moment because reality would rush back to me in waves. I felt like I was drowning.

But just like all tragedies, the wound began to heal at an excruciatingly slow pace. I don't think the wound will ever heal completely, but things have gotten easier despite the fact that memories of his death continue to stir in my mind at random points to this day, yanking me back to the grief and guilt I felt. I long to throw my head back and laugh at the inside jokes between us; to gaze into his violet eyes as he strokes my auburn hair during the high school graduation dance; to be annoyed by his careless hobby of reading gum wrappers; and to watch him walk into my house, plop down on the leather couch and say, "Novs, this is the funniest thing..."

But most of all, I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him silly, yell at him and convince him that he was loved by everyone – that he's still loved by everyone. I want to show him all the things that the haunting veil of depression blinded him from seeing. I want to reach inside him and grab his precious heart so I can show it to him and ask, "Do you see this? Do you see this beautiful, important thing you are considering wasting?"

But I can't.

All I can do is hold those small tokens of friendship and romance close to my heart, remembering the good times we had together.

There was, however, one thing I learned from Carter's death. It presented me with the gift of altering my view on relationships – romances, friendships, et cetera.

Since his death, I've been less tolerant of artificial engagements and hungrier for the sustenance of real relationships. I find that some people collect friends the same way they collect trading cards – only to show off how many they have or what the underlying value is.

I still welcome the possibility of forming new friendships, but I don't need lots of them. What I need is for the few relationships I have to be rooted in authenticity and sincerity because true relationships do not deplete more than they fill.

"So did you have a nice drive? I heard the drive from Alberta to Vancouver is very long." the girl – Julia Lowe – asks. I know her name because of the nametag situated on her white blouse. As she holds the door open for me, I keep my eyes peeled for any students that could possibly be my roommate. That's the one downfall of obtaining post-secondary education in a different province – you have to share a crowded room with a stranger.

I mentally sigh. In order to get through this semester, along with the upcoming ones, I'm going to have to try to put aside my antagonism toward meeting new people.

Warmth hits my face as I step into the grey building. The fluorescent lights are blinding compared to the bleakness winter tends to cast across the city. I look at her, frowning. I don't recall ever mentioning anything about driving, let alone where I'm from. Unless I see the possibility of a friendship in the future, I tend to prefer keeping my personal information to myself.

She seems to pick up on my suspicions because she quickly retracts what she said. "Oh! I'm sorry," she says. "It's my job to know some background information on the students I help. High River, Alberta, right? What was it like living there?"

I stiffen at the question, wondering exactly how deep my file delves into my life. Aside from what happened, living in High River was normal. Located forty-five minutes out of Calgary and with a population of over twelve thousand, it was your typical childhood. The town was great – from museums to historic murals, to delicious bars and grills, High River will always be my home.

"It was home," I comment, annoyed that she's asking me personal questions. Never did it occur to me that Coasties would be so interested in and friendly with me.

"You must have been shocked when you saw what the mountains were like," she jokes.

"Sure," I reply monotonously. When I glance sideways at her, I can see her growing exasperated as she racks her brain for something to say. Truthfully, I don't want to talk to her. All I want to do is get to my dorm room and unpack my belongings so I can get settled down and map out what I'm going to do on Monday when classes start. I'm no good unless I have a plan – everything needs to be systematized if I'm going to get through university without falling victim to stress.

Julia, thankfully, doesn't say another word until we come to the thirteenth dorm room. I draw my suitcase to a standstill and I stare uncertainly at the gold numbers on the door. For a split second, I wonder if my roommate is going to like me, if I'm going to like them, if we'll get along. But I shake that off – I'm here for schoolwork, not to socialize or party like the stereotypical university life tends to validate.

"Here's your key," Julia says, handing me a silver key that has the number thirteen engraved into the face of it.

For the first time, I really look at her. She's a couple of inches taller than me, with long black hair that has obviously brown natural highlights. Her face is round and her skin has a warm honey tone to it, making me think she has an Asian background. Her eyes are like pools of melted dark chocolate. She's beautiful, no doubt about that. And, with her tight pencil skirt, white blouse, and small black heels, she looks professional. Fit to be a guidance counsellor.

I reach out to take the key from her and slip it into the pocket of my leather jacket. "Thank you."

"You're welcome!" she chirps, smiling at me. "If you ever need any help dealing with your roommate or if the living conditions don't meet your standards, come visit me at the student services building on the west side of campus for any additional help."

I nod and thank her one more time before she's practically skipping down the hallway, her heels clicking against the abraded linoleum.

Turning back to the door, I take a deep breath and gently knock my knuckles against the wood. I wait five seconds before knocking again, pressing my ear to the wood to listen for any background noises on the opposing side. When I hear nothing, I decide to enter the room.

I step through the doorway, hoping that I don't have to immediately introduce myself to my roommate. I'd rather them walk in on me while I'm unpacking.

But I'm wrong.

The first thing I notice isn't the window that's situated between the two twin-sized beds and displays a lovely view of the Pacific Ocean; or the gym bag that has been thrown on the empty bed; or the door that leads to the bathroom. No, it's the explicit trail of clothes that litters the floor. I follow the trail with my own eyes. Black Stilettos, one upright and the other tipped over. Polished dress shoes bracketing them. A shirt, a sequinned dress. Lacy black undergarments lay next to the foot of the occupied bed as if they were carelessly discarded.

I close my eyes and mentally groan. I had been hoping my roommate wouldn't be this type of girl, but I guess we can't have everything we want. When her boyfriend leaves, I'm going to have to lay down the rules about what happens in this room.

"Who the hell are you?"

My eyes snap open and flick upward, past a bare torso composed of toned muscles and shadows, over a scratch on his right pectoral, along a well-structured jawbone covered in a faint layer of stubble. I stop when my eyes meet his. They're dark blue, reminding me of all the nights I spent lying in the wheat fields and gazing up at the stars back home. His hair is a dark shade of brown, wildly dishevelled.

I shake my head. His pretty face is not going to get to me.

"I'm your girlfriend's new roommate," I reply to the mysterious man lying beside the sleeping brown-haired girl.

The cell phone he's holding drops to the tangled sheets as he reaches down to the carpeted floor to retrieve a pair of black boxer briefs that have been carelessly forgotten. Unable to tear my eyes away from the scene playing out in front of me, I watch as he dresses beneath the grey-and-black sheets.

I silently pray that he's going to dress in something more than those boxer briefs, but he doesn't. He swings his bare legs over the bed, stretches out the stiffness in his muscles, and gets to his feet.

I swallow thickly at the sight of him.

He towers over me. I feel like a child in comparison to him. And his body is beautiful in every way, with the –

Stop it!

I regain my composure and take a deep breath as he walks over to me.

"Warren Ashford," he says, holding out his hand.

Like I promised myself, I shove my hostility away and take his hand. "Nova Elliot," I reply, thinking maybe I'm taking this introduction a little too seriously.

"What kind of name is that?" he snorts. "Nova as in Nova Scotia?"

My mood plummets from buoyant to cynical in an instant. If there's one thing I've come to hate in my life, it's that reference. I have nothing against Nova Scotia, but from the moment I started attending school, it's been brought up by either the teacher or my fellow peers. It gets very annoying after a while.

"No," I reply sternly, keeping my gaze locked with Warren's. "My name has nothing to do with the provinces."

"Is that so?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes. In astronomy, a nova is a star that shows a sudden increase in brightness for a period of time and eventually returns to its original state."

Warren looks at me like I'm old news. "That was a rhetorical question, sweetheart." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I flinch in response and he grins. I've seen that type of grin on a man before. It's the kind that a predator gives its prey before attacking. "So, do you want to tell me what the hell you're doing in my room?"

I blink. "Your room?"

"That's right," he nods, crossing his arms.

My mind rejects what he's said. I superimpose a different story than the one that's playing out in front of me. One where Julia made a mistake and led me to the wrong room and gave me the wrong key. This can't possibly be right. There's no way the university would pair me with a boy as my roommate.

But Warren stares stonily back at me, daring me to confirm what we're both dreading.

I gulp, suddenly nervous. This is not how I wanted my semester to begin; I wanted everything to run smoothly and efficiently, like a well-oiled machine. My life is just starting to find its stability again – I don't need something to throw me off.

However, I push down the anxiety and throw my shoulders back, straightening my posture to make myself look taller than I am. "Well," I say, holding up the key that was given to me. "Julia from the student services building brought me here moments ago, telling me this is where I will be staying for the upcoming semester."

Warren's deep blue eyes narrow in a way that sends a chill down my spine. His jaw clenches, wiping the grin from his face.

"I never heard anything about a roommate," he says. His gaze flickers over my shoulder as if he's searching for someone down the hallway.

I don't like the tone of his voice. It's angry-calm. He's not happy about me walking in, that much I can tell. He's also sizing me up, inspecting every little detail that's currently visible.

"That's weird," I say, avoiding any effort to make my voice sound light and breezy. "I've known about this room for a long time. Surely the campus informed you."

His stares at me. Stares and stares. It's like he's never heard the terms "roommate" and "girl" before, which I find hard to believe considering the fact that there is a girl sleeping in his bed.

His gaze, his stance, the tenseness of his jaw – it all makes me feel uncomfortable. I drop my gaze to his bare feet for a second, attempting to sort out my thoughts. When I steal a glance at him seconds later, he raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, sweetheart," he chuckles, taking a step closer to me. He flashes me a smile that would probably weaken another girl's knees. "I know you want some of all this" – he stops and gestures to his body – "but this roommate shit ain't gonna fly with me."

Annoyance spikes in my blood. Who does he think he is, saying something like that?

I frown, setting my hands on my hips as I watch him walk over to a small dresser alongside the wall adjacent to the foot of his bed. He rummages through the top drawer, pulling out a navy-blue sweater, a pair of jeans, and some socks. I gape at him as he dresses, despising the fact that he doesn't have the common courtesy to walk into the bathroom and get changed like a normal person. Frankly, it's disrespectful to me.

Averting my eyes from him, I look at the brown-haired girl. The blankets are wrapped firmly around her body; covering any bare skin, save for her neck, arms, and face. I look at the nightstand that's between the two beds. The drawer is open and I can see an open box residing inside it.

That is when I realize what's going on.

Disgust blossoms inside me. I hate boys like Warren Ashford. Life is a joke to him. There's no doubt in my mind that this isn't the first time he's hooked up with a girl for a night of casual, rampant sex. There's no doubt in my mind that all the girls on campus have drooled at his feet. I can't comprehend why he would do something like this when he appears to be healthy. He's alive and throwing his life away like it means nothing.

So much for avoiding my hostility.

I arch an eyebrow at him when he's finished dressing. "This" – I point at the sleeping girl and then back at him – "is the last time you hook up with someone in this room. Now that I'm here, things need to change."

I keep my voice loud and strong, my chin tilted high in the air as I speak, but all he does is laugh. Mockingly. He flashes me another grin. "You're a little spitfire, aren't you?" He takes another step and my breath catches. He's tall – even Carter wasn't this tall when he was alive.