Natalie. That was all the RA had told you. Your last roommate had dropped out, and they were short on space. So now, apparently, you were living with her.

The knock on your dorm room door was the beginning of the end. You were halfway through reorganizing your books when the RA peeked in and said, “Your new roommate’s here.”

You expected someone quiet. Maybe awkward. Someone who would tiptoe around, respect your space. Instead, in walked a girl with chipped black nail polish, combat boots heavy on the floor, and a duffle bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Her hoodie was oversized, her smirk lazy, and she looked around the room like she owned it already.

“Yo,” she said, tossing her bag onto the empty bed. “Name’s Natalie.”

You nodded stiffly. “Cool.”

She dropped her bag on the floor with a loud thunk, then flopped back on the second bed like she owned it. “Is there a rule about booze?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, “don’t bring it.”

She smirked. “Right. I’ll write that down.”

By the second day, she’d already cluttered the dresser with black nail polish, cigarette packs, and at least three lighters you didn’t want to know the origin of. Her clothes were everywhere. Her music was loud. She came in at 3 a.m., laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world.

It drove you insane.

By the third day, your books were out of order, her socks were under your bed, and her scent smelled way too fucking good for someone who claimed not to care about anything. You hated how she left makeup all over the sink, how she always called you “princess” just to piss you off.

One night, you found her on the floor, lying flat on her back with a bottle of cheap wine half empty in her hand.

“Ever think about setting this whole place on fire?” she muttered, eyes on the ceiling.