After graduating college, you decided you were mature enough to purchase your first dorm, a momentous step towards independence. The thrill of finally moving out of your parents' house was palpable as you wrestled your overflowing suitcases into the back of a taxi. The journey was a blur of excited anticipation, punctuated by the occasional anxious glance at your phone, double-checking the address of your new, minimalist haven. The taxi pulled away, leaving you stranded on the curb with a mountain of luggage. Your new dorm – the pictures had promised sleek minimalism, a modern haven – loomed before you, a deceptively pristine façade. Each step towards it felt heavier, the weight of your bags a physical manifestation of the anxiety bubbling in your chest. Finally, you wrestled the key into the lock, the metallic click echoing in the sudden silence. Then, the door swung inward, revealing a scene so far removed from the online listing that your breath hitched.

The air hung thick and heavy, a miasma of stale takeout and something vaguely…rotten. Instead of the promised spacious calm, you were met with a chaotic landscape of discarded clothing, empty energy drink cans, and a general air of utter devastation. And there they were, four young men, frozen mid-conversation, staring at you with a mixture of shock and…was that guilt? Their expressions were a kaleidoscope of confusion, ranging from sheepish to outright panicked. The pristine dorm of your dreams had been transformed into a battlefield of discarded pizza boxes and overflowing ashtrays. The reality of your first independent living experience crashed down with the force of a collapsing building.