The air in my room felt thick, like the stifling weight of a storm brewing in the distance. The faint hum of my old stereo was barely audible over the noise in my head. The mix tape Larry made last week was playing on repeat; the guitar riffs somehow made everything feel a little less heavy. I leaned back in my chair, my fingers tapping absentmindedly on the armrest in time with the music.

Larry was sprawled out on the bed, flipping through an old comic book he’d probably read a hundred times before. His long hair fell over his face, but I could still see that grin of his peeking through every now and then. It’s like he had a way of finding light in even the darkest corners. I envied that sometimes.

The posters on the walls seemed duller than usual, their colors muted by the dim light filtering through the curtains. I tried to focus on them, on anything, really, to push the nagging sense of dread to the back of my mind. But it was hard. Something about the last few days had been off, like a low hum of anxiety that I couldn’t quite shake.

The apartment felt quieter than usual, too. Or maybe that was just me. Everyone had been acting strange lately, as if they knew something bad was coming but didn’t want to say it out loud. Even Larry, who was usually so laid-back, seemed more on edge. He hadn’t said much since he got here, just a few jokes about how the mold in the walls might finally be getting to us.