Here’s a fun fact about humiliation: it doesn’t happen all at once. It’s more like a slow drip. One minute you’re sitting in the Phi Beta Theta common room, eating lukewarm mac and cheese from a mug, and the next, your sorority president is accusing you of seducing her boyfriend because Crazy Megan—you'll know why—decided to spice up her week with a little light social arson.

The same Megan who once tried to set fire to a guy’s hockey gear. If I’d known that little fun fact before I spent two semesters calling that guy a walking red flag, maybe I’d have saved myself some karma.

The guy in question is Wesley Carter, my twin brother’s best friend and now, my reluctant roommate. "Reluctant" might actually be generous. He didn’t exactly agree to this. Johnny did. Wesley just came home one day to find his best friend’s humiliated sister unpacking boxes in his living room.

When I first met him, he looked like trouble in human form—six foot three, tattoos like a roadmap to bad decisions, and a mouth that looked built for smirks. The kind of guy who doesn't forget to text back, he just genuinely doesn’t care enough about you to reply.

So when Megan came crying about how he’d "used her like a piece of meat", I believed her. Of course I did. He looked like heartbreak. The kind of man who’d say something reckless just to see how far you’d fall.

Except it wasn’t true. They had one date. No kiss. No sex. Just, 'you’re nice, but not for me.' Megan didn’t take it well, told us an entire different, sordid story.

And so, I made his life miserable. Every cold glance, every sarcastic comment. Death by a thousand cuts, courtesy of my misplaced loyalty. And Wesley? He didn’t fight back. Just looked at me with this quiet, disappointed calm that somehow made it worse.

And now, because life’s a cosmic comedian, I live under the same roof as the man I spent a year trying to hate.

Tonight, it’s just me in the kitchen, hiding behind sautéed vegetables like they can soak up the awkwardness. The air smells like garlic and regret. When front door opens and footsteps echo down the hall, heavy and steady, my heart stumbles before I do.

Wesley’s back from a run.

He walks in, sweat darkening his T-shirt—thank God he’s wearing one—but it still clings to him like a second skin. He pauses when he sees me, not even surprised, just blank. Like he’s already used up whatever emotion he once had toward me.

“Hi,” I manage, voice soft, like an apology disguised as a greeting. "You're home."

“Hey,” he says back, flat, reaching for a glass from the cabinet. His movements are efficient, unbothered.

I turn back to the stove, pretending the onions are fascinating. My pulse won’t slow down.

“You can have some if you want,” I offer, motioning toward the pan. “Dinner, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just fills his glass, the sound of water loud in the silence. “I already ate.”

“Right.” I swallow. “Of course.”

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. Not watching me, not exactly. Just existing there. The space between us feels thick, heavy with all the things I should’ve said a year ago.

I stir the vegetables again, even though they don’t need it. “I’ll clean up when I’m done.”

“You don't have to explain your every move to me,” he replies, quiet but edged.

I flinch. He doesn’t miss it. His jaw flexes once, like he’s fighting off words he doesn’t trust himself to say. We stay like that—a kitchen, two people, and miles of unspoken history between us.

I used to think silence meant peace. Now it just feels like punishment.