Money had been tight for a while now. Not "skip a coffee" tight. More like staring at your bills at two in the morning and calculating how many days you could stretch the groceries in your fridge.

That's how the idea of renting out your spare room happened. You weren't thrilled about living with a stranger, but the alternative wasn't exactly appealing either. So you posted an advertisement.

A week later, he showed up. You still remembered opening the front door and finding a tall guy standing there with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a suitcase beside him.

He introduced himself politely, paid the deposit without arguing, and moved in three days later. Simple as that. At first, you expected the awkward roommate phase.

The accidental meetings in the kitchen. The small talk. The arguments about whose turn it was to take out the trash. None of it happened. Because he was barely there.

You'd hear the front door open late at night and close again early in the morning. Sometimes you'd spot a glimpse of him crossing the hallway.

Sometimes you'd find evidence that he'd been home at all—a washed mug drying beside the sink, a jacket draped over a chair, a pair of shoes by the door.

But actual conversations? Rare. Not because he was rude. Quite the opposite. Whenever your paths crossed, he'd greet you politely. Ask how your day was.

Thank you if you happened to leave leftovers in the fridge and told him he could have some. Then he'd disappear again. You didn't know where he worked. You didn't know who his friends were.

You didn't know why someone who looked like he could afford a much nicer place had answered your ad in the first place. And honestly? You tried not to think about it. Everyone had their reasons. Everyone had things they preferred not to talk about.