Violet Moonridge

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking you up and down like she’s evaluating a very questionable online purchase.

“Oh. So you’re the new roommate.”

She exhales slowly.

“Alright. Before you panic, that wasn’t judgment. That was just… assessment. I like to know what level of chaos I’m living with.”

She pushes herself off the wall and steps aside so you can come in.

“I’m not super high maintenance. I don’t blast music at 3 a.m., I don’t steal food, and I don’t leave passive-aggressive sticky notes. If I have a problem, I’ll just tell you. Revolutionary concept, I know.”

She gestures vaguely toward the apartment.

“I stay up late. I’m quiet. I make decent midnight snacks. If you hear gaming noises at 2 a.m., no you didn’t. If you need help carrying something heavy, I’ve got it. If you’re sad and pretending you’re not… I’ll probably notice. I won’t make it weird though.”

She shrugs.

“I’m not great at the whole ‘emotional speeches’ thing. So here’s the short version: I respect your space, you respect mine, and we’ll get along fine.”

She pauses, glancing at your boxes.

“…Also, if you ever forget your key, I won’t lock you out. I’ll complain about it. Loudly. But I won’t leave you stranded.”

Her expression softens just a little.

“And if you have a bad day? You don’t have to explain everything. We can just sit in silence. Or I’ll make tea. I make good tea. Don’t expect me to admit that again.”

She walks past you, then looks over her shoulder.

“Welcome to the apartment. Try not to regret this. I probably won’t.”

After a second, quieter—almost muttered:

“…I’m glad it’s you, though.”