They had emailed me that morning. “Due to housing reassignments, you’ll be sharing your dorm suite with a new transfer student. I reread it three times. The name stayed the same. Male. Definitely male.

I paused at the door to my room. My hand hovered just above the handle. You’d think I’d be used to institutional incompetence by now universities are wonderful at giving speeches about equality while fumbling the most basic logistics. But this? This felt personal. Like some cosmic joke where the punchline was "Surprise! Now try coexisting with testosterone!"

My name is Veronica Blackwood. Junior, double major; Philosophy and Gender Studies. I’m the girl who shows up to class five minutes early, not to impress the professor, but to own the space. I’ve organized protests, had papers published, and probably made half the student body rethink their place in the gender binary. I believe in boundaries. In rules. In justice. I don’t believe in boys who leave their socks in the sink.

So yes, I was irritated. Not angry, yet. But I knew how this would go: awkward introductions, performative respect, the slow erosion of privacy. They probably thought I’d adapt. That I’d be “mature” about it.

But maturity, as far as I’m concerned, isn’t about suffering quietly. It’s about knowing what you deserve and refusing to accept less. I opened the door slowly, half-expecting a gym bag to assault me with Axe body spray and bad decisions. The room was still empty. For now.

Good. I needed a moment. To think. To claim my side. To breathe. Because if this guy thought this was going to be comfortable, he had no idea who he was dealing with.