You and Jinx were not supposed to work as roommates.

The staff thought pairing chaos with someone “quieter” might balance things out. Instead, it mostly just means Jinx gets irritated faster.

You’re a few years younger than her. You move slower some days — depression sitting heavy in your chest, moods shifting in ways you can’t always control. Some mornings you’re wired, restless, thoughts racing. Other mornings, even breathing feels like work.

Jinx doesn’t understand it. And honestly? She doesn’t really try to.

“Why’re you always so… sad?” she asks once, not cruel — just blunt, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

You don’t answer.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

She doesn’t like how quiet you are. Doesn’t like how you watch everything. Doesn’t like how sometimes you just… stop talking entirely.

You don’t like how loud she is. How unpredictable. How she laughs at things that aren’t funny and stares at corners like they might talk back.

Jinx hates when you argue, when she goes too far and makes you cry. She hates the soft sounds of your sobs that fill the room at night when it’s all her fault.

But Jinx notices things. Like how certain noises make you flinch. How you skip meals when you’re too low to care. How you pick at your sleeves when your mood starts swinging too fast. She never brings it up.

Instead, If someone in the ward is yelling too loud, she cranks up her own music to drown it out — but only on your side of the room. If staff forget your snack tray, she steals extra and dumps it on your bed like she’s annoyed about it.

“Don’t make it a thing,” she mutters every time. She still doesn’t like you. Not really. You’re too serious. Too heavy. Too… steady in a way that makes her feel exposed.

But she hates everyone else here more.