I DIDN'T want to be early, but there I was.

Ambling along with an empty coffee cup in one hand, wearing a bright yellow sundress in the middle of winter, I dragged my luggage behind me.

At six in the morning.

It wasn't exactly a conscious decision. An excuse to justify being first in line at the café drive through, maybe, but also a chance to take my first steps through the gates of Oakham Conservatoire before anyone noticed me.

Before I would do something stupid and send them all running.

Yes, the yellow sundress wasn't the best idea for that reason, and yes I didn't realise the weather forecast I'd read in the morning was for Wednesday, not Monday, but at least I was actually there, finally, after convincing myself that somehow I'd never make it. That I'd never even get to see those walls I'd dreamed about back home.

Oakham itself looked more like the set of Downton Abbey than a University. Baronial in its entirety, it seemed to unravel itself, enveloping me into its cavernous walls, displaying each and every touch of Gothic grandeur. The windows, evenly placed, followed my steps as I walked down the path towards reception, looking out onto the crowding of fields nearby. I was surrounded by an expansive array of nothingness.

Just as I wanted it to be.

After struggling to open the doors whilst juggling several bags of luggage and a now squished coffee cup, I stepped into the building, feeling warmth hit me like a slap in the face. Inside, the palatial decor gleamed at me with its dripping chandeliers. Checked tiles were dotted and polished under my feet, plumped cushions placed elegantly on the sofas, daring me to sit down and ruin their perfect arrangement. I immediately felt out of place.

The desk, like the rest of Oakham, was deserted. A few leaflets were settled neatly on one end, and a sad looking donations box stood pointedly on the other, to which both looked untouched and placed purely for the façade of reputation. Behind, and only visible for curious people like myself, was a computer, a messy array of sheets, and some pens ordered to resemble a rainbow.

I rested my half-broken suitcase against my legs to avoid it clanging to the floor.

It definitely said in the email that opening hours were from six in the morning. Six AM, until Six PM. I'd even repeated that phrase several times in my mind the day before, just to be sure I registered it. After I once arrived a day early to a job involving playing the piano as guests entered, and, oh the irony, sat on stage banging out Ding Dong the Witch is Dead to a funeral procession and not a children's themed party, I was a little weary of remembering my dates and timings properly.

I shuddered, picturing the appalled faces of the deceased's family, and then the embarrassed funeral director who'd mistaken me for the other pianist, assuming I was to play Angels by Robbie Williams.

It did seem strange that there was a giant picture of an old woman at the front of the stage and no signs of the Wizard of Oz. It came down to personal choices, I had figured.

So, undoubtedly, I was not good at remembering, but this – I was sure six was right.

As I turned around, trying to locate information to prove myself correct, I noticed that, adorned on the wall behind me, was a mirror, displaying my flustered self – dark, matted hair, the regretful yellow dress, tanned Filipino skin, pinched red cheeks from the bitterness outside, and, as usual, my mothers dark brown eyes.

"It's an empty dream." Was the first thing she had said about Oakham. One Sunday I'd made her a cup of tea in the kitchen after school, sitting her down at the table whilst I gave her a desperately put together sort of sales pitch; thrilled that the scholarship had been offered to me. Once I'd gushed over everything I could think of, she scanned the website with pejorative eyes, pursed her lips, and frowned. Her fingers scrolled obsessively down every page. Clicking and tapping and repeating it all over again. "You're really going to give up your place at Oxford? All your hard work that you've put in for the past few months? For this?"

I couldn't help but notice the Bridge of Sighs behind her, glaring back at me through its frame, delicately painted and adorned on the wall. "It's not...it's not about that. Just – just look. They have 50 practise rooms, and ten different types of piano. A library for sheet music. A whole module on Debussy, mum. Liszt, Sergei Prokofiev. Brahms. Clara Schumann!"

"You're not listening to me, Luna." She shut the laptop screen and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You'll study here, maybe play a few concerts and meet some friends, and then what? You magically become, I don't know, Mozart? You need to think about what's good for you. What you will and won't regret."

I looked at her through cloudy eyes. "But I know I won't regret this. It's what I want."

"Then don't ask me for my opinion." And with that, she had stood up, leaving her cold cup of tea untouched on the table.

I always knew going to Oakham would be difficult. That it would leave my heart heavy, knowing I hurt my mother. Perhaps that's why, standing alone in the reception, my mind was almost, almost telling me to turn back around and walk away before it was too late.

But I was interrupted before I got the chance.

"Hi, sorry about the wait."

A blonde woman with a red face and several bags hanging off her shoulders entered from the door behind reception, flurrying around behind the desk as she began to prepare for the morning ahead. "Something came up with the computer systems and I had to call in tech support, who are frankly diabolical at their jobs. You would have thought a technician would know how to reboot a system straight away, but it took him an hour. Goddamn it I need to get a new job."

I smiled, feeling my nerves begin to settle in the pit of my stomach. "It's okay. Happens to all of us." Then I frowned. "I mean, it doesn't. Like, we all need a new job. Some of us need a new job. Everyone...everyone hates Mondays."

She blew a stray hair out of her face. "Ahh, I'm guessing it's your first day. You're nervous, I get it. Don't be. Oakham's pretty good at getting you used to change, that sort of thing. I'm Kate, by the way. For some reason I'm known as Kate the receptionist, which is degrading, so call me Kate. Please."

Thankfully Kate was so frantic that my beating heart was already returning to a normal pulse and my hands had stopped shaking. She seemed young, maybe several years above me, that certain youthful air of bluntness still ripe and fresh in her words, skin smooth; eyes awake.

She continued readying herself for a few more moments, before finally she sat down and exhaled dramatically. "So. Tell me your name and student number, if you have it please."

"Luna Hart." I watched her type on the keyboard. "And I don't remember my student number."

"Not a problem. Date of birth?"

"16th of October 2000."

"And place of residence?"

"Guildford."

She nodded in confirmation, gathering several pieces of paper together whilst humming under her breath. "Found you." She grinned. "So you're a transfer, huh? What made you change?"

"There was an opening for the scholarship here." My hand reached for the pack she left for me on the desk. "I was pretty lucky to get it."

"Well, don't worry that you're a few months behind. The professors will probably pile it all on you straight away, but you look like you can handle it."

A part of me was comforted by the faith she had in my abilities. The other practically had a heart attack at the mention of having to catch up on the work.

I smiled, but felt it not reaching my eyes. "Thanks."

"Alright, let me just get you some directions up quickly. So you're in the Fonteyn building, which is the big dark one next to the gardens." Her eyes scanned the computer as her fingers tapped on the mouse impatiently, each click seeming to echo around the eerily quiet reception. She caught my eye, rolling hers at the slow computer, groaning as it beeped back. I was about to tell her I could probably ask another student, when she clicked once more and froze, her mouth falling open.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, tightening one hand around my suitcase handle.

Kate's ashen face turned to me. "Yes. Yes, sorry, it's just – I didn't think we were having anyone else in flat 305. Not after – well, yeah, I don't know why I didn't put two and two together. You are the transfer, of course."

There was a moment of silence as I considered asking the question hanging between us in the air.

After what?

Clearing her throat, she continued. "Once you're in the building, head up the stairs to the first floor, walk all the way down the hallway to your left, up the flight at the end and along a few doors. I know, it seems like a maze. You'll figure it out eventually. Your room is whichever one hasn't been claimed already."

"How many people are in my flat?" I asked, suddenly aware that I would be barging into a group of already well-aquatinted students.

She placed the key on the desk slowly. "Five. But, uh, some have up to nine. So it's good. And you have a really nice flat. It's a – yeah. A nice flat."

With a swallow, I muttered a shaky goodbye and followed her directions, wheeling my suitcase behind me as I endeavoured to walk towards the building that fit her description.

Luckily, I noticed it straight away. Fonteyn stood out from the rest of the other buildings, decrepit; the stones a darker grey, almost black, the windows smaller and spotted with algae.

Although it sat next to the thriving garden, somehow it felt deathly and isolated. I shuddered, sending a text to my cousin, Alice.

If you don't hear from me again, I've been murdered in Voldemort's bachelor pad.

Her reply was almost instant: ok.

♦ ♦ ♦

Room 305, strangely, was right at the end of the hall, separated from 304 by a much larger gap than usual. A window was on the end, displaying the view of the rest of campus, and there was a significant amount of overflowing post in the pigeon box next to it.

Taking the key out of my pocket, I slid it into the door, my hands shaking and my breaths sharp.

This was nothing. It was fine. I'd gone through worse. I was completely fine. Completely fine.

A door opened down the hallway, startling me to the point where I screamed loudly.

The girl walking out of it gave me a strange look.

"Hi, sorry." I laughed awkwardly. "Just didn't sleep well last night-"

She was already gone.

Sighing loudly, I turned the key and unlocked the door, anxious to see the inside. Immediately I noticed that nobody was awake – there were no sounds of talking, no distant blare of the radio, no running water and no sorts of movement.

To my right there was a kitchen, vacant, surprisingly displaying a more contemporary setting, with plenty of storage and three different fridges, as well as a large table for six. Past the table was what looked like a scene from an LA mansion: a space with three long ruby red sofas, a glass coffee table piled with several fashion magazines, a flat screen TV adorned beside some digital prints on the walls, and delicate wooden shutters on the windows to prevent the light from entering.

I had to shut my mouth to stop myself drooling.

The flat in general was also eerily clean. There were no stains or typical student mess lying around; only the presence of several sets of shoes placed neatly by the door indicated there were actually other people there. Along the hall there were six doors, five of which completely shut, the last one open wide.

Unlike the rest of the flat, my room was bare and plain – how I liked my crackers sometimes, not, however, at that point in time, when the rest of the flat looked like someone had thrown money all over it.

An empty cupboard sat next to a desk, and on the other side there was a small double. Other than a window and an ensuite, there wasn't much to explore, so I put my bags down and flopped onto my bed.

I couldn't lie and say I wasn't intrigued about my flatmates. Because I was, very much so. But I also wasn't desperately eager to meet them.

The walls had been painted. The floors vacuumed. Bins empty. Shoes ordered.

It just wasn't normal.

No student residence looked like that. Even Oxford was messy and unorganised – and on the odd occasion it was tidy you'd easily find an old pizza box stuffed somewhere.

Evidently, my flatmates weren't like that.

Not unless they all happened to be studying the art of cleaning, anyway. I snorted, covering my mouth when the sound came out far too loud.

Whatever the case, I needed to get out of there. Clearly I needed more coffee.

♦ ♦ ♦

Unsurprisingly, I was the first person in the lecture hall, sitting nervously towards the back of the theatre in the hope that the Professor would walk by so I could introduce myself.

The first lesson I was to be graced with was Arts Therapy: a module I'd randomly picked out among several other boring offers. It was also one that I was informed upon clicking had the largest amount of students taking it and therefore required less speaking and more note-taking. Which, as it just so happened to be, was great: I didn't want to be seen by anyone – I wanted somewhere that I could just blend in. With hundreds of people, there was less of a chance the other students would all know each other; perhaps nobody would even realise that I was new.

"Oh, hey! You must be the transfer." A girl with a large smile and red curly hair sat next to me, taking out her laptop and a water bottle from her bag. "Foreman said he'd give ten pounds to whoever spotted you first."

There goes that plan.

"Foreman?" I asked, my voice quiet.

She took a long sip from her water before grinning. "Our professor. Dr. Foreman. He's great – so chill. You'll love him."

I tried to smile back, already feeling out of place. "Oh, cool."

A few other students entered, waving at the girl next to me before sitting near the front. They conversed with one another animatedly, their bags packed with notes and textbooks.

"What's your course then?" The girl turned back to me. "I'm Gabby by the way."

"I'm Luna." I waited awkwardly as she stared at me, before realising she asked me a question. "Oh, sorry. Music Performance BA. I play piano. What about you?"

Gabby raised her eyebrows. "Piano! You must be really good. Not many people get into study Music Performance here. Anyway. I chose Theatre Studies BA. Not the best idea."

Gabby turned as we heard a shout. A boy had just walked into the lecture, tall and skinny; his blonde hair gelled back and shining against the lights above. He called Gabby's name, and she gestured for him to come and sit with us.

"Aw. Fucks sake Gabby! How'd you find her first?" He asked, rolling his eyes.

"You snooze you lose." Gabby turned back to me, her eyes sparkling. "This is Ryan by the way. He also does Music Performance. Plays the harp."

"The harp – wow, that's amazing."

Ryan shrugged. "Eh. Kinda want to play saxophone now. It's so funky, you know?"

Moving her pencil case off the seat next to her so that he could sit down, Gabby grinned when she saw that he had a packet of Haribos in one hand. Ryan, noticing her expression, rolled his eyes and shoved the packet into her hand.

It wasn't my intention to have one until Gabby passed the bag to me and I caved. Sugar wasn't great for me in the mornings – I got hyper like a five-year-old high on ice lollies. But today, it was a welcomed treat on a stressful morning. "So, if you play harp, what's the rule with practising your instrument?"

"You get practise slots and extra hours if you manage to bag a room quick enough, other than that you're welcome to practise in your flat." Ryan grabbed the packet out of Gabby's hand.

Gabby, rolling her eyes, added, "That's if your flatmates are nice though."

"Right." Ryan nodded gravely. "Mine definitely are not. They're all painters who claim to need their peace and quiet. I'm sorry," he spluttered, throwing his hands in the air with exasperation, "but would you consider the harp to be a loud instrument? No. No!"

He placed his bag under his legs, stretching his arms so that he whacked Gabby in the face. Gabby shoved him.

"Oh, well I don't know about that." I bit my lip, thinking about how claustrophobic flat 305 made me feel. How tidy and silent it was. "Mine weren't even awake this morning."

"Really?" Gabby frowned. "Didn't they have any lectures?"

"I don't know. It seemed like they were there though. I saw their shoes."

Ryan took out a broken pencil from his bag. "Maybe they were hungover. What building are you in?"

"Fonteyn."

Both of them shared a look. Gabby, whose eyes seem to lit up, smirked at Ryan. Ryan on the other hand groaned. "That's where Abel lives." He said dully, his voice monotonous. "Gabby and like, all the girls at the school are obsessed with him."

"Not just Abel." Gabby butted in. "Kingsley and Isaiah too."

"Oh, well, I'm in flat 305. I doubt they'd all be in the same flat."

Silence.

Gabby's jaw practically hit the ground. "Oh my gosh I'm so jealous."

"Well, they seem weird." I replied, smiling at her dramatic expression. "The flat was so clean and quiet."

"You're with the five. You're actually with them. In their flat." She shook her head in disbelief, putting one hand on her forehead as if it was too much to take in. Ryan gave me a look as if to say, she's gone mad.

I laughed, watching more students walk past.

The lecture theatre was beginning to get busier – with every row of seats filling up rapidly, the volume of the room increased by the second. I noticed Dr. Foreman was already at the front, talking to a grouping of students with a large smile on his face. On the screen above him it displayed the question, 'Can music be a form of rehabilitation?' in bold, black letters.

I'd have to introduce myself at the end, instead.

When I tuned back into the conversation, Gabby and Ryan were still on the topic of my flatmates. "Well, obviously she was going to be, Gabs." Ryan said, his voice now sounding mildly bored of her astonishment. "She is taking her place."

"Whose place?" I asked. They both looked at me, Gabby biting her thumbnail anxiously, whilst Ryan pursed his lips.

"Felicity Gray." Gabby whispered, almost too quiet for me to hear. "She was a girl who went missing a month ago. Went to Oakham."

The way she said the name reminded me of the look that Kate had given me – a nervous, troubled look.

I felt my own expression mirroring hers. "And my flatmates...?"

"Were her best friends." She swallowed. "Abel, he was –"

Just as she spoke, the doors to the lecture theatre opened again, but this time it was different. This time, the whole room seemed to quieten dramatically, almost like someone had pressed the volume on mute.

Moving through the doors with an icy glare was a boy with blonde hair and a heavy-set jaw, his muscled shoulders hunched and face unwavering as if it would prevent people from staring.

"That's Abel." Gabby whispered into my ear. His name seemed to echo around the room. "You know the one I was telling you about? He's Felicity's brother."

I watched Abel make his way down the stairs of the theatre. If he was bothered by the looks and the stares, he didn't show it, for his face remained emotionless and cold, one hand hung limply by his side, the other loosely touching his rucksack. His hair was tousled roughly, as if he'd just fallen out of bed, strands falling into his eyes that he refused to move, the odd tuft spiking upwards here and there. He looked exhausted – the dark circles gave him away, partially hidden by the long eyelashes that were cast downwards as he walked, his movements slow and effortless.

And of course, Gabby had been right. Abel Gray was attractive. The type of attractive that certain boys had to draw you in without meaning to, their beautiful, delicate appearance so endearing it was difficult not to picture them naked. But the thought of having to live in the same flat as him clenched my stomach. All I wanted was to get drunk and make friends with my flatmates. With Abel, I was pretty sure that was out of the question. I couldn't exactly imagine drinking wine with him until three in the morning, drunk off our heads and snacking off Pom-Bears.

He made his way several rows in front, taking a seat by dropping his bag carelessly at his feet. The group of people on his row instantly fell silent, pretending to stare at the front. Abel leant back in his seat and said nothing.

"Alright everyone." Dr Foreman's voice boomed over the whispers, forcing all attention to be placed on him. "Let's get into some interesting stuff, huh? What do you all think about a new essay to work towards?"

The entire room groaned.

"Just kidding, just kidding. Now if you click on the link I emailed you all last night..."

I tried to breathe in deeply as Dr. Foreman began the lecture, opening up a word document and jotting down some useless notes, but the picture of Abel's face was imprinted clearly in my mind. Those empty eyes; that cold look.

He was the shell of a boy who was grieving.

A boy who, I guessed, certainly wouldn't welcome his new flatmate with open arms.

Truthfully I doubted he'd even welcome me at all.

AUTHORS NOTE: Well hellooo there!

WELCOME TO UNTIL SHE FELL!!

Guys I am so excited about this book, I've been planning it since June last year, can you believe it?

And seeing as we've all got a lot of time on our hands and I haven't really been active on Wattpad for a while, I thought this would be a great time to start!

Get ready for updates and updates, drama and romance, and a storyline that I'm already obsessed with!

How are you all doing in isolation (if you are)? Keeping busy? (Truthfully I'm not being as productive as I should...whoops)!

Stay tuned and stay safe my lovelies,

Lots of love from,

Donutized