Marco lived like a robot. An expensive, emotionally stunted, hyper-efficient robot who didn’t understand the concept ofrelaxation.
He woke up at 5:00 a.m. every morning. Not because he had to, just ... because. For no reason. Like his body had never experienced joy or a soft pillow.
I asked him once—half-asleep, completely annoyed his unnecessarily loud movements had woken me, “Seriously, Marco, why? Who hurt you?”
He just shrugged, tugging on a shirt. “I’ve always woken up early. Since I was a kid.”
“Yeah, well, most kids grow out of that,” I grumbled back into my pillow, not caring if he heard me. “They learn how to appreciate sleep.”
But not Marco. He just left the room quietly. Whatever normal kids did—sleeping in, cartoons, basic human happiness—he’d clearly skipped that part of childhood.
And it showed.
We clashed over everything. The thermostat. The laundry. The way I left my phone charger plugged in. The way he folded towels as if he’d trained in the military and I was disrespecting his homeland by folding mine in thirds.
He didn’t understand why I left half-read books in every room. I didn’t understand why he needed to separate his pens by ink color.
We clashed over the kitchen sink too. Or rather, he stared at it every time I left a plate soaking. I told him it was called “letting it marinate.” He didn’t laugh, just rinsed it himself and dried it with a dish towel as if that would erase the offense.
He hated my rugs. Not that he said it out loud, but I caught him nudging the one in the hallway with his foot like he thought it might crawl away if he didn’t tame it. I asked him what his problem was, and he just said, “Trip hazard.” As if my throw rugs were a landmine.
Mornings were the worst for him. I liked to talk. I mean, not deep, philosophical stuff, but normal things. Thoughts. Theweather. Why eggs tasted different in my kitchen than at the bodega down the street. I’d always been like that, ever since I was a kid. My mother hated it, my sister tolerated it, and Cillian had usually just left the room to avoid it altogether. I didn’t really blame him.
But Marco didn’t say anything. Just sat at the table like a statue drinking black coffee.
Honestly, I didn’t need a response. Talking filled the space. It made me feel less alone, even if I was technically talking to myself. I’d learned early that my own voice was better than silence, and maybe that was why I kept doing it despite Marco’s obvious disdain. Old habits and all that.
Living with Marco was harder than living with Sasha. At least Sasha didn’t mind my things.
Marco did.
He didn’t like that I had two types of toothpaste on the sink—one for mornings, one for nights. He said it was inefficient. I told himhewas inefficient for spending five minutes a day pretending not to wince every time he saw my makeup bag unzipped.
He started collecting my hair ties. He found them on doorknobs, on drawer handles, and hanging off the corner of the TV. One day I caught him dropping a handful into a ceramic bowl.
He closed every cabinet I left open.Dramatically.Like maybe if he did it enough, I’d eventually feel ashamed and change. I didn’t. I opened them again the next morning just to grab my cereal and left them that way out of spite.
He stacked my mail. Neatly. In one corner of the counter. I let it sit there until it towered, just to see if it would bother him. It did. He added a binder clip and slid it closer to the fridge. I told him if he touched my mail again, I’d scatter it across the floor and make him read every overdue notice aloud.
He moved my shampoo into the corner of the shower. Aligned the bottles as if we were running a salon. I moved them back. Not because I cared, but because I knew he did.
It was constant. This quiet war. This silent competition of control in my own apartment.
It wasn’t bad. Not really. It was just ... living with someone who didn’t fit. Not because he was wrong for the space, but because he treated it like he was renting it from the universe and couldn’t wait to give the keys back.
He neverfullyunpacked, even though he made room for a few of his things. That was the part that got to me. His bags stayed by the door fordays. Like he didn’t trust the floor to hold him. Like any second now he’d pick his bags up, dust off the quiet, and slip out without needing to say goodbye.
He always looked ready to leave.
I couldn’t stop wondering if this was what it felt like from the other side. To live next to someone who never really arrived. To watch them move around your home like it was a hotel room. To know they could leave and probably would, and you were just a stop on the way to whatever came next.
I wanted to be angry. Wanted to yell at him for howpresenthe wasn’t. For how quiet he could be in the loudest moments. But I couldn’t be angry. I’d been like that for years. With Isa. Lucia. With my mom, before she got sick. With every man I’d ever called temporary even when I wanted them to stay. I’d made sure nobody got too used to me, because God forbid they expected something I couldn’t give.
But the thing about Marco was that he never left, even if he looked like he wanted to.
He just . . . stayed.
Silently. Awkwardly. Uncomfortably.
