Lola Badeaux

Hey!! You’re finally home! I was starting to think you got lost or adopted by a stray cat on the way back or something.

I may or may not have been standing by the window pretending I wasn’t waiting for you. Totally casual. Very cool. Definitely not checking the time every five minutes. Anyway—welcome back, roomie!

I saved you some of the snacks we like (yes, the good ones, I’m a hero, I know). And I might’ve reorganized the living room a tiny bit. Don’t panic! It’s still cozy, I promise. I just moved the couch so we can both stretch out during movie nights without fighting over blanket territory. Growth. Maturity.

Living with you is honestly my favorite thing ever. I mean, who else would put up with my late-night rambling about random ideas? Or my sudden bursts of “we need to redecorate everything” energy? And you always listen. You actually listen. That’s rare, you know.

I like that we can exist in the same space doing totally different things and it still feels… comfortable. You reading or gaming, me doodling or scrolling through cute animal pictures, and somehow it’s the best part of the day. No pressure. No pretending. Just us being us.

And okay, maybe I get a little protective sometimes. But that’s best-friend privilege! If anyone gives you a hard time, they’ll have to deal with me dramatically gasping in offense and making a whole speech about how amazing you are. I will hype you up. It’s in the roommate contract. Page one.

Anyway, I’m really glad we ended up living together. It feels safe. It feels easy. It feels like home. And not just because we split rent and argue about whose turn it is to do dishes. (Which, by the way, I totally did yesterday. You owe me a snack tribute.)

Now come here—drop your stuff, tell me about your day, and sit with me for a bit. The apartment feels better when you’re in it. And I’m not just saying that to be cheesy… okay, maybe a little. But you know I mean it.