Page 11 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

“There’s no need to. I already know you did.”

Sophie looked up, lying on her bed, her cropped hair slightly sweaty.

"It will be okay," she whispered. "You just have to let it heal."

I didn’t know how to respond to her, so I did what I do best—I left the room and ran away.

When I returned from walking around the hallway, Sophie was still in bed, watching videos o her phone. The quiet trust forged over the past hour—the shared tea, the lifted foot, the raw, mutual understanding of pain—was a precious thing, delicate as tissue paper. I was still standing by the edge of her bed, dizzy from the emotional intensity of Sophie having seen my fear and choosing acceptance instead of judgment.

A sudden, sharp series of knocks interrupted the fragile silence.

"Sophie! You in there? I brought the armory!"

The door swung open, and Mark strode in with the familiar confidence of someone who owned the space.

My body instantly recoiled, freezing me in place. The warmth of the moment vanished, replaced by a cold, searing panic that originated deep in my gut.

Mark was carrying a large take-out bag and a brightly packaged first-aid kit. He was handsome, easygoing, and, to my terrified mind, an active threat. He looked past me as if I were a piece of furniture—or perhaps, just the prickly roommate he was used to ignoring.

"God, Soph, what did Coach say?" Mark scolded, dropping the food on the desk and kneeling immediately beside her injured leg. His movements were fluid, practiced, and deeply intimate as he began to gently examine the wrapping around her ankle.

"I told him it was nothing, but he insisted on taking me off the field," Sophie replied, a tone of comfortable resignation in her voice. She leaned back against the headboard, watching him fuss. "He said if I mess up my ankle before the playoffs, he'll personally murder me."

"Damn right," Mark said, his voice lowering with genuine concern. He didn't look up, his focus entirely on her foot. He ran a gentle, familiar hand over the compression wrap, then glanced at the ice pack I had placed there. "Ah, the good stuff. Thanks, Iris," he mumbled, a distracted courtesy he usually skipped. I moved to my bed, skittish again.

He looked at Sophie. "You want me to run to CVS for better pain relief? Or are you sticking to your ridiculous homeopathic crap?"

"Don't call my tea crap,'" Sophie laughed, reaching out to cuff his shoulder lightly. The casual affection, the comfortable physical closeness, the effortless way Mark gave and received care—it was a devastating visual.

My world short-circuited.

This is it. This is the truth. She’s taken.

The sophisticated intellectual who championed Butler, the vulnerable athlete who feared failure, the kind roommate who comforted me about my art—she was all wrapped up in the same casual, uncomplicated relationship that I knew I could never achieve. Their dynamic was effortless. It was a world of easy trust, light banter, and no heavy emotional baggage.

My walls went up instantly, colder and harder than before. My hands clenched. I retreated, backing away slowly until the cool metal of my easel pressed against my shoulder blade. I didn't say a word. I just stood in the farthest corner of the room, gathering the scattered tubes of paint, radiating a hostile, glacial silence.

Mark, finishing up his inspection of her ankle, finally looked up and caught my eye. His smile faded slightly under the palpable shift in the air.

“You should’ve called me, Sophie. I’d have come running.”

“Stop with the dramatics,” Sophie said, tapping his shoulder. “I can take care of myself. You can go back to your dorm now and stop worrying like a mother hen.”

I focused on my book, trying to drown out the awareness of my hot roommate and her caring boyfriend. They were perfectly suited for each other, both emotionally available and cheerful, so unlike me.

"All right, I'll let you... rest. Call me if you need anything, Soph." He grabbed the take-out bag, leaving her dinner. "See you later, Iris."

I said nothing, merely giving a curt, cold nod.

Two days after Mark’s visit, I was alone in my dorm room. Sophie had recovered from her limp, but I hadn’t recovered from seeing Mark here. The way he fussed over her, the way their dynamic was everything I wanted…it still bothered me on a deep level. Maybe opening up to my roommate had been a bad idea, especially because I was so attracted to her. There was only one way to salvage my pride—avoid her. I had grown silent, avoidant, retreated back into my shell, and she was noticing it too. The intense vulnerability of the preceding days was now trapped in a rigid pattern, waiting for the inevitable crack.

I was hunched over my desk late Friday evening, sketching with frantic precision, trying to channel the restless energy into line work. I hadn't looked at Sophie since this morning.

"Are you going to ignore me until graduation, Iris?" Sophie's voice cut through the quiet. It wasn't angry; it was just tired and profoundly patient. The bandage was still wrapped around her ankle, but she was able to move around as usual.

I kept my eyes on the paper. "I'm working. I have a submission deadline."

"You're drawing the same light fixture you were drawing three hours ago," she countered, the accusation gentle but firm. "We need to talk about it. We can't keep breathing in this poison. What happened to you? Why did you shut down after Mark left?"