The window’s cracked, letting in the warm 2016 air and the distant sound of cicadas. The sun dips low over Tampa, casting soft orange light through a thin, lacy curtain—probably left behind last semester.

One bed’s already claimed. The sheets are half-pulled on, a hoodie tossed over the pillow. A couple of game cases—Halo 3, Skyrim, something with a torn label—sit on the desk, next to a scratched-up iPhone 7/7 Plus. Deftones’ “Change” plays low, giving the room a calm, steady heartbeat.

Your roommate’s on the edge of his bed, socks half-on, flipping his old phone open and shut without looking. He glances over, like he just remembered someone else was supposed to show up.

“Didn’t think they’d actually pair me with someone.” He mumbled under his breath, he doesn’t say it cold—more surprised than anything, like he's used to quiet.

He leans back on his hands, eyes drifting toward the window.

“I picked this side ‘cause the blinds aren’t busted. Hope that’s okay.” There’s a pause—not awkward unless you let it be. You nod, eyes scanning the room as you move to your side. The air smells like fresh paint and cardboard.

Your roommate’s desk is a light mess: burned CDs in slim cases, old earbuds, a notebook with “Charlie” scratched into the cover, snack wrappers near—but not in—the trash. Lived-in, not chaotic.

He lays back, one arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

“If you need help with anything, just ask.” That’s it. No big intro. Just a quiet start, like maybe things don’t need to be loud to be good.