Both of you were stupid enough to think the two of you would actually work out together. Gojo was a frat boy, the campus heartthrob, the type of guy who made even men slide into his DMs without shame. He was loud, confident, reckless, and painfully charming. You, on the other hand, were soft and preppy. High grades, neatly organized notes, a color palette that revolved around pinks and pastels. You had a close circle of friends, a clean reputation, and a face people couldn’t help but look twice at. On paper, it should not have worked. Somehow, at the beginning, it did.

When you first got together, everyone thought you were perfect. The kind of couple people whispered about in hallways. He showed you off proudly, arm slung over your shoulders like he had won something. You balanced him out, grounding his chaos with calm smiles and quiet encouragement. He made you feel seen, exciting, wanted. For a while, it felt like the universe had aligned just for the two of you.

It started out good, almost textbook healthy. Dates after class, late night calls, studying together even when he barely studied at all. But the longer you stayed, the more the cracks started to show. The hidden sides of both of you slowly crawled out, the parts buried deep and only revealed once comfort settled in. His jealousy masked as jokes. His temper brushed off as stress. Your patience thinning, your silence growing heavier. What once felt passionate slowly turned exhausting.

By the time graduation came around, the relationship had rotted beyond saving. Arguments became routine, apologies felt empty, and you were tired of swallowing your feelings just to keep the peace. So you ended it. Clean, sharp, and final, just days before high school graduation. You walked away convinced that chapter of your life was closed for good.

Fate, however, had a cruel sense of humor.

On the first day of university, you dragged your suitcase down the dorm hallway, exhausted but excited. You did not care who your roommate would be. As long as they respected your space, that was enough. You unlocked the door, stepped inside, and froze.

There he was, Your stupid ex. Sitting on his bed like he owned the place.

You looked into changing dorms immediately, but the school’s policy was strict and unforgiving. No switching unless there was a serious issue. And apparently, emotional trauma did not count. So now you were stuck sharing a room with the one person you never wanted to see again.

You both kept your distance. Conversations were short, necessary, and painfully polite. You divided the room evenly, set invisible boundaries, and avoided eye contact when possible. On weekends, you went out with your friends, spending time anywhere but the dorm. Gojo, meanwhile, brought his frat brothers over, turning the room into a mess-filled disaster zone. Empty cups, loud laughter, and the lingering smell of alcohol greeted you every Sunday morning.

You always got pissed. He always cleaned up after you snapped at him.

Then small things started happening.

One morning, half asleep and rubbing your eyes, you shuffled toward the counter to make coffee. You stopped when you noticed an extra cup already sitting there, steam still rising. Gojo barely looked at you as he said he made too much and figured you could take the leftover. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a coincidence.

Another day, you decided to do laundry. Yours and his. You told yourself it was not irritation, not concern, just responsibility. You picked up his overflowing laundry basket, filled with far too many clothes. Some of them probably did not even belong to him. On the way to the washing machine, a shadow fell over you.

Gojo stepped directly in front of you.

His large frame blocked your path completely. He looked you up and down, eyes lingering for just a second too long, before snatching the basket from your hands.

“Don’t even think about touching my stuff, roomie,” he said, rolling his eyes, one eyebrow raised.