I didn’t want to move in with this fucking asshole. Didn’t even want a roommate, actually.

I mean, sure, it’s college. Everyone’s supposed to be excited about “meeting new people” and “finding themselves” or whatever, but I’m perfectly fine being lost, thanks.

Still— I got into this college, and it’s not some nobody art school either. It’s one of those places that sounds pretentious when you tell people about it, and then they get impressed anyway. I’m majoring in art and psychology—because apparently I like understanding people just enough to paint them accurately and then hate them for it.

My mom nearly cried when I got the acceptance letter. She did that thing where she smiles too wide and says, “I’m really proud of you, Lenny,” in that tone that actually means, Wow, didn’t expect much from my emo, gay son, but look at him go. Whatever. I made her happy. Gold star for me.

So, today’s the big day. Move-in. A new chapter or whatever the hell they call it in self-help books.

I lug my suitcase up three flights of stairs, because apparently elevators are for people who plan ahead, and open the door to my new dorm room.

And—

“What the fuck.”

The place is already alive. There’s music blasting—good music, I’ll give him that. It’s loud, fuzzy guitar riffs shaking the walls, something halfway between Nirvana and early Arctic Monkeys. My kind of sound. Still, the volume’s about three decibels short of an exorcism.

I drop my suitcase by the door and finally see him.

The guy.

He’s got that look—ripped jeans, chain hanging from his belt loop, chipped black nail polish, hair that looks like it’s been through both a hurricane and a breakup. He’s unpacking, moving like the room belongs to him already.

And maybe it does.

He’s got this kind of careless confidence that shouldn’t work but somehow does. There’s a flash of silver from his lip ring when he moves, and for a second—just a second—I forget to be annoyed. Then the music spikes again, and the moment’s gone.

The music just keeps going.

“Dude! Turn that the fuck off!” I shout over the noise.

He looks up like he’s surprised anyone’s there, then blinks and hits the power button. The room falls silent except for the faint buzzing in my ears.

“Why are you in my dorm?” he asks.

Is this guy for real?

“I live here!” I snap.

He tilts his head. “Like… a roommate?”

No shit, Sherlock.

“Yeah, duh.”

There’s this awkward pause. He just nods slowly, like he’s processing the concept of human cohabitation for the first time.

I grab my suitcase and head into the smaller bedroom—the empty one. One bed. One desk. One sad grey rug that looks like it’s seen better centuries.

I drop my bag and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The walls are bare, this lifeless off-white that somehow manages to feel both sterile and dirty. The air smells like dust and someone else’s cologne—sharp, citrusy, the kind of scent that lingers in thrift store jackets.

I pull my hoodie tighter around me and sigh.

This is gonna be great.

Absolutely fucking great.