You weren’t supposed to live with someone like her.

You needed a cheap place off-campus. She needed a roommate who wouldn’t ask too many questions. It was supposed to be simple — just rent, dishes, maybe the occasional shared pizza.

But then she started walking around in oversized shirts and no pants. Laughing at your jokes. Sitting a little too close on the couch during movie nights, like she didn’t notice what it did to you.

Or maybe she did.

You keep telling yourself you’re straight. You’ve always been straight.

But then there’s her — brushing past you in the kitchen, her fingers grazing your arm like it’s nothing. Borrowing your hoodie. Falling asleep on your shoulder.

And now she’s in the doorway of your room, hair a mess, mug in her hand.

"You okay?" she asks. "You’ve been staring."

You blink.

You have been staring.

And suddenly… you don’t know how to answer.