ROOMMATES BY MISTAKE

Weird feeling

The sun had already begun to sink by the time the final orientation event ended, stretching long orange shadows across campus grounds. Students were loud with relief, laughter bouncing between buildings as groups slowly scattered toward dormitories and dining halls. For most people, the day ended the way it was supposed to—tired feet, full stomachs, and stories to tell.

For Akira, it ended with paperwork.

And for Morgan, it ended with waiting.

They were both assigned to help with post-event cleanup, though neither of them had been particularly enthusiastic about it. Chairs had to be stacked, banners taken down, cables rolled, and leftover supplies returned to storage. It was the kind of work that made time feel sticky—slow at first, then suddenly gone without warning.

Akira worked without complaint. She preferred it that way. Physical tasks were easier than conversations. Objects didn’t misunderstand her. Objects didn’t ask unnecessary questions. Morgan, on the other hand, kept talking whenever silence lingered too long, as if stillness itself was something to be negotiated.

“You know,” he said while folding a large banner carefully along its printed seams, “if they gave medals for surviving orientation week, I think half the campus would qualify.”

Akira didn’t look up. “Then it wouldn’t be an achievement.”

“That’s a very Akira answer,” he replied lightly.

She paused just long enough to shoot him a glance. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means you sound like someone who calculates joy before accepting it.”

“I don’t calculate joy.”

Morgan smiled faintly. “Sure.”

That single word should have irritated her more than it did.

The storeroom they used for returning items was located at the back of the student center, deeper into campus where foot traffic thinned and noise softened into distant echoes. By the time they finished the last trip, the sky outside had darkened into a deep blue. The building lights had switched on automatically, casting long fluorescent reflections across tiled floors.

Akira carried the final box inside while Morgan held the door open behind her.

“Last one,” he said.

“Finally,” she muttered.

Inside the storeroom, the air felt cooler than outside, slightly damp, like it hadn’t been properly lived in for a long time. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with equipment, forgotten boxes, and labelled containers that no one bothered to update anymore. It smelled faintly of dust and cardboard.

Morgan stepped in after her and closed the door behind them.

The click was soft.

Neither of them noticed it immediately.

Akira placed the box down, exhaling quietly. Her shoulders ached from the day. Morgan stretched his arms above his head, rolling his neck.

“You think they’ll make us do this again tomorrow?” he asked.

“If they do,” Akira said, “I’m disappearing.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It’s a survival strategy.”

Morgan laughed under his breath and turned toward the door.

That was when he tried the handle.

It didn’t move.

He frowned slightly and tried again.

Still nothing.

Akira looked over, watching without speaking at first. Morgan pressed his palm against the door and pushed. Then pulled. Then stepped back.

“…Okay,” he said slowly.

Something in his tone changed.

Akira walked over. “It’s locked?”

He tested it again, harder this time. The door remained unmoving.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be,” he said.

Akira reached for her phone first. No signal. Morgan checked his. Nothing. The storeroom, suddenly so ordinary, now felt different in a way neither of them had expected.

Still not serious.

Not yet.

Just inconvenient.

Morgan knocked once. “Hello?”

The sound echoed down the empty corridor outside, but no response came. The campus had already shifted into night mode—quieter, emptier, less forgiving.

Akira crossed her arms. “Someone will come.”

“Eventually,” Morgan agreed.

There was a pause.

Then another.

Time stretched in a way that didn’t feel urgent, but it didn’t feel comfortable either. The kind of silence that settled between strangers who had nothing to prove to each other—but were still learning what silence meant when shared.

Morgan sat on the edge of a low crate.

Akira stayed standing.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Morgan glanced at her. “You’re not going to sit?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that three times today.”

“I am fine.”

He tilted his head slightly. “People usually stop repeating things when they’re fine.”

Akira didn’t respond.

Morgan didn’t push further. Instead, he leaned back against the shelf, looking up at the ceiling as if trying to make sense of it.

“I used to hate being stuck places,” he said after a while.

Akira looked at him, cautious.

“Not because of the space,” he continued. “Because of what people think when you’re stuck. Like you’re waiting for permission to exist properly again.”

She didn’t reply immediately.

Morgan looked down at his hands. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“It doesn’t,” Akira said quietly before she could stop herself.

He blinked, slightly surprised by her answer.

That was the first shift.

Small. Unintentional.

But real.

Silence returned, but it was different now. Less heavy. More aware.

Akira moved slowly and eventually sat on the opposite crate. Not because she was comfortable, but because standing felt unnecessary now. The room didn’t change, but something in it had softened.

Morgan noticed but didn’t comment.

After a while, he spoke again. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“No,” he said gently. “Not like this.”

Akira frowned slightly. “What’s the difference?”

He thought about it.

Then shrugged. “This quiet feels like you’re thinking too much.”

That landed differently than she expected.

Akira looked away.

Thinking too much was not something she admitted to anyone. Thinking too much meant space for doubt. Space for questions she didn’t want answered.

Morgan didn’t press. Instead, he changed direction entirely.

“I think I embarrassed myself during the relay challenge earlier,” he said.

Akira glanced at him. “You tripped over a cone.”

“It was placed aggressively.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It felt personal.”

Despite herself, Akira exhaled something close to a laugh. It escaped before she could control it.

Morgan noticed immediately.

“Wait—did you just—?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You definitely did.”

She shot him a warning look.

He smiled.

And for a moment, neither of them spoke again—not because there was nothing to say, but because something had shifted in how they were saying things. The teasing didn’t feel like distance anymore. It felt like ease forming in small cracks.

Then—

A sound outside.

Footsteps.

Akira straightened instantly.

Morgan stood.

A shadow passed the frosted glass panel beside the door. A moment later, a voice called out faintly from the hallway.

“Hello? Anyone inside?”

Morgan immediately responded. “Yes!”

The door rattled.

A lock clicked.

Light spilled in.

A campus staff member appeared, startled. “Oh—sorry. Didn’t know anyone was still in here.”

Morgan stepped forward. “We got locked in.”

The staff member blinked. “Again?”

Akira and Morgan exchanged a brief look.

Again?

Neither of them questioned it out loud.

Moments later, the door was open fully, and fresh air rushed into the small room as if reminding them the outside world had continued without them.

Akira stepped out first.

Morgan followed.

They walked back across campus under dim pathway lights, the noise of earlier celebrations now reduced to distant echoes and scattered conversations.

Nothing had changed.

And yet—

Akira noticed that Morgan didn’t walk ahead of her.

He matched her pace.

Not too close.

Not too far.

And she didn’t move away.

That realization stayed with her longer than she expected.

Back in Room 4B that night, Akira lay in bed staring at the ceiling while Morgan sat at his desk scrolling quietly on his phone. The room was normal again. Familiar. Safe.

But something about it felt slightly altered.

Not because anything had happened.

But because now—

she noticed when he was there.

And that thought irritated her more than anything else that day.

So she turned over, facing the wall.

Trying not to think about it.

Failing anyway.