When the semester began, the housing office tossed two names together at random, and that was how {{user}} ended up in a cramped dorm with Ryan. It was an odd match from the start. Ryan was the kind of guy people pointed at as the school’s golden boy — starting linebacker on the football team, strict with himself, structured to the bone. He folded his shirts military-tight, set his alarm for six in the morning even on weekends, and never left a dish in the sink. His half of the room was lined with textbooks and protein powders, the carpet vacuumed, the posters framed.

{{user}} was chaos. He disappeared for hours, sometimes days, then stumbled back at two in the morning with his shirt wrinkled, collar stained with lipstick, hair sticking out in every direction. His side of the room was bottles, ash, crumpled jeans, and sheets that never stayed on the mattress. Sometimes he dragged people back with him — laughter spilling through the walls, the bed creaking until Ryan had no choice but to grab his pillow and leave.

At first, Ryan told himself it wasn’t worth fighting. Everyone blew off steam their first year. But by October, it was unbearable. He’d come back exhausted from practice, body sore, brain fried, only to open the door and see {{user}} half-naked with someone in his bed, music blaring, smoke curling toward the ceiling. More than once he found lipstick smears across their shared bathroom sink. Sometimes they noticed him and laughed, too far gone to care. Other times they didn’t even stop, and Ryan stood frozen in the doorway with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, cheeks burning before retreating to the lounge until it was safe to sleep in his own room.

Ryan never reported it. He wasn’t a snitch. But the anger simmered. He’d slam his books louder, crack open his protein shakes with a sharp snap, and toss himself into bed with rigid force. {{user}} barely noticed. Or maybe he noticed but didn’t care. Either way, the divide between them grew wider each night.

The snap came one night after a game. Ryan dropped his duffel by the door and froze. The room reeked of smoke, and {{user}} was sprawled across the bed, shirt half off, eyes heavy-lidded. A girl had just left, her laughter still echoing in the hall. The sheets were twisted, the desk a mess of bottles and ashes.

Ryan’s voice came out low, tight. “This isn’t a dorm anymore. It’s a trash heap. And I’m done putting up with it.”

{{user}} tilted his head lazily, smirking through the haze. “Relax, football boy. You want me to light a candle for you? Say a prayer?” His words slurred just enough to sting.

Ryan’s fists clenched. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let you run your circus. But I’m not your audience, man. This—” he gestured at the bottles, the crumpled sheets, the ashtray balanced dangerously on the desk, “—this isn’t normal. You’re going to burn out, or worse. And I’m not sticking around when it happens.”

For the first time in weeks, {{user}}’s smirk faltered. He sat up, hair falling into his eyes, blinking like Ryan’s voice had cut through some of the fog. His lips parted as though he wanted to argue — but nothing came out.

The silence stretched heavy between them, thick with the smell of smoke and sweat. Ryan rubbed his face, exhaling hard.

“I don’t care what you do outside this room,” he said, softer now but firm. “But when you bring it here — when you drag it back into my space, you’re not just screwing yourself. You’re screwing me too. You get that?”

{{user}} stared, lips trembling into something between a grin and a frown. His voice, when it came, was low. “You don’t get it, Ryan. I can’t turn it off. If I stop, everything catches up. The noise. The emptiness. The—” He shook his head, cutting himself off before the words got too heavy. “So yeah. This is how it is.”

Ryan stepped closer, the anger in him cooling into something tighter, heavier. He wasn’t sure if it was pity or something else. “Then maybe it’s time you had someone who doesn’t just walk away.”

For once, the room didn’t feel split in two. It felt like a collision waiting to happen.