What I hadn’t considered was that boxes of textbooks and clothes would feel heavier than they looked. The sweat slowly cascading from the nape of my neck and into the fabric of my crop top proves my mistake. The final surge of August heat doesn’t do much to help.
I huff while dropping the cardboard box in front of the brown painted door and try to catch my breath while searching my pockets for the key.
It’s etched with the number 1508, matching the gold-plated digits nailed above the peep hole.
I let another handful of seconds pass to settle my heart. I’m not nervous about living with someone new. I’ve been stuck with a randomly assigned roommate before, and she ended up becoming my best friend.
My nerves are less about living with someone, and more about who I’m livingwith.
My peers in this program haven’t been the nicest. Their unkind words follow me from class to class. They leave me wondering, just for a moment, if working in the finance industry is worth it.
I just don’t want my living space to be an area of ridicule, too.
Shaking my head, I force away the anxious thoughts. I could end up with a misogynistic, egotistical classmate from my cohort, sure—but it would pass. I would grit my teeth and get through it.
I’m repeating these things in my brain while unlocking the door and twisting the knob.
The dorm isn’t anything special. It’s not much different than the last dorm I lived in—aside from the large man with a head of butter blonde hair staring at me. He blinks behind the black-framed lenses of his glasses and the figure in his hands stalls mid-air.
“Hi!” It comes out more enthusiastic than I expected, but I don’t recognize him from any of my classes. That’s a good sign.
“Hello.”
His voice is soft—comparable to the sound of his Lego figure being precariously sat on the bookshelf in front of him. His eyes are an almost unmistakable green, and I swear I’ve seen the shade before, but I can’t put my finger on it.
There’s a dirt mark swiped across the front of his white t-shirt, sitting under his blue plaid button-down and tucked into his black jeans. In the moments I wait for him to say something else, he pushes his blonde hair back and repositions his glasses.
The last observation I allow myself is that he’s undeniably attractive. In the subtle, quiet way that would have me side-glancing at him in the middle of a lecture and then looking away right before we make eye contact.
We meet eyes now. Locked, while I tug the cardboard box into our dorm and kick the door closed behind me. This isn’t a classroom, and he isn’t a random peer I can secretly gush about to Liliana. He’s my roommate.
I replay that fact in my head while wiping my brow.
“You must be my roommate.” The corners of my mouth turn upwards, but I feel the embarrassment swelling. Duh, he’s my roommate.
Again, I wait. For him to respond or give me any sign he’s understood what I said. I’m questioning if my voice reaches thirty feet across the room when I try again.
“You… are my roommate, right?”
“Yes.”
I’m starting to think these snipped responses are all I’m going to get, but the grin stretches wider across my face. His dry replies don’t feel malicious. They’re too naturally awkward. It’s refreshing to be around someone who doesn’t have a million and one opinions about me, for once.
“I’m Rosalie. Most people call me Rosie, though.”
It takes five large steps to get to his side of the living area and hold out my hand. He lets the silence hang for a bit before connecting us in a shake.
“What are you most comfortable with?”
“What?”
“Rosalie or Rosie. Which do you prefer?”
His tone is leveled. Almost as unmoved as our hands are now, frozen between us before we separate a few seconds off cadence. My eyes trace around the walls of our living space and I hum.
“You know, I’ve never thought about it before. No one’s ever asked.”
I’m good at talking to new people, usually. Conversations usually follow the formula of sharing names, falling into the nickname “Rosie,” and then cracking a joke about our surroundings.
