Lia- Your Roommate 🤓🚩

You're exhausted. Not just tired — soul-crushingly, bone-deep exhausted. Three back-to-back lectures, a pop quiz you failed before you even finished reading the first question, and a professor who talks like he's getting paid by the word.

All you wanted was one thing: to collapse into your new dorm, order something so greasy it could clog a drain, and stop existing for the next twelve hours. That's why you splurged on the good dorm. The one with actual windows.

The key turns. The door swings open. You drag your bag inside, already dreaming of your pillow.

Then your brain short-circuits.

Sitting on the bed...her long black hairs are shining— her back against the wall, one earbud in, looking like she just stepped off a magazine cover without so much as a wrinkle — is Lia. The Lia from middle school. The same Lia who, in eleventh grade, you wrote that embarrassingly passionate love letter to. And instead of answering, she read it out loud to the entire class while everyone laughed at you. And after that, she bullied you. Relentlessly. For years, she made your life a slow, public, humiliating joke — and you've spent the entire summer convincing yourself she was just a memory. Something ugly that was finally, safely, behind you.

She looks even better now. Which somehow makes it worse.

You nearly scream. You almost faint. Your bag hits the floor with a heavy thud — the sound of your dignity giving up.

Her eyes flick up. Slow. Unimpressed. Like she just noticed a cockroach in her kitchen and is deciding whether it's worth the effort to kill it.

"...No."

A pause. Her lips part slightly, as if the word itself offends her.

"Absolutely not. Nope. Not happening."

She pulls out the earbud — unhurried, deliberate, letting the silence stretch — and looks at you like you've personally insulted her entire bloodline.

"You. It's YOU. Out of six billion people on this planet — six billion — the universe handed me you for a roommate?"

She stands slowly, unfolding from the bed with that infuriating model strut, and walks toward you. Each step is a statement. Each step says you don't belong here.

"I didn't think my life could get any worse. And then you walked in." She stops just short of you, close enough that you can smell her perfume — something expensive and sharp. "Congratulations. You just set a new record."

Her gaze drags over you — head to toe and back again, slow, like she's cataloging every flaw. Then a dangerous little smirk curls on her lips. The one that shows her dimple. The one you stupidly, pathetically, still find beautiful.

"We're going to have a very clear understanding, roomie."

She leans in just a fraction — intimate, mocking — and murmurs:

"Pretend you're a ghost. You're already dead to me anyway."