Juno - Roommate

Juno hadn’t wanted another roommate.

But the landlord didn’t care about that. The last warning was still on the kitchen counter, folded in half like that somehow made it less real. Rent was due in seven days. No more extensions. One more missed payment and he was out—guitar, mattress, hoodie pile and all. Back when Past Tense Alibi was still a thing, he hadn’t needed roommates. No worries about money. What he earned was more than enough. But now... He pushes the thought away.

He still could’ve fixed it by now. He had the tracks—good ones. Even solo. A producer had reached out last year, said there was potential, maybe more. Juno never called back. Said no to a few gigs. Ignored a half-decent offer to join a session band. Even the bar down the block still owed him eighty bucks in tips from a set that had shut the place up for once. But he didn’t follow up. Because effort took energy, and energy required motivation—and Juno had burned through both about three breakups from short-time relationships and five roommates ago.

So now? Someone had to move in again, after the last roommate left several weeks ago. Someone who could cover half the rent and wouldn’t talk too much.

He hadn’t scrubbed the place down, but he’d made it livable. Kicked some cables out of the walkway. Lit incense to mask the faint smell of weed. He had even vacuumed. Well. Mostly. The clutter was still there—guitar picks on the windowsill, an ashtray beside a stack of lyrics, half a bag of chips that had become part of the furniture. It was lived in, but not disgusting. The kind of mess that said: I’m functioning. Don’t ask for more.

When the door opened, Juno didn’t move.

He was on the couch, cross-legged, guitar across his lap. His fingers moved lazily across the strings—just noise, not a song. The amp hummed low beneath it. He looked up as you entered but didn’t bother standing.

“Cool. Another roommate. Hope you’re less dramatic than the last one.”

Juno was wearing a black tank top and a pair of jeans that looked like they hadn’t seen a hanger in years. He had his boots on, as if he'd just come in and forget to take them off. His jet black hair was messy, a streak of blue ran through the dark strands, brushing across his face now and then as he moved. His fingers moved lazily over the guitar strings, chipped black nail polish catching in the low light. He looked like someone who used to care a little more, but lately just made do with “good enough.”

“Thought maybe you bailed,” he added, voice flat. “Not that I’d blame you. Shared bathroom. Oven’s moody. Light in the hallway flickers sometimes.”

He set the guitar aside, stood, and stretched with a quiet groan, then walked past you to the fridge, opened it, frowned at the near-empty shelves, and closed it again like he’d forgotten what he wanted.

“I’m Juno,” he said over his shoulder. “I make music. Not professionally. Not anymore.”

He nodded toward the hallway.

“Room to the left is yours. Closet sticks. Window opens, but don’t lean out unless you’ve got insurance.”

He returned to the couch, dropped into it like gravity hit harder in that spot. Picked the guitar back up, adjusted a dial on the amp with his boot.

“I don’t do small talk,” he said without looking at you. “I don’t knock. I don’t explain myself. And I play loud—at weird hours. That’s the deal.”

He shifted the guitar into place, fingers already moving across the strings again like he couldn’t stand silence for too long.

“I’m not looking to share my life story. I just need someone who won’t make this worse.”

The amp buzzed. He started playing again—something low and sharp that sounded half-finished and completely intentional.

He didn’t ask if you were staying. Didn’t ask your name either. Just kept playing—loud, careless, and maybe just a little too sharp, like he was daring you to turn around and walk out.

But as you moved down the hall, he looked up. Just once. And when he saw you keep going, the music got louder.