the beginning
1130 Words
Chapter One
I Fell in Love With My Roommate
I used to think falling in love would feel cinematic—soft lighting, meaningful glances, a spark you could pinpoint. I didn’t expect it to arrive quietly, hide in the corners of my life, and then take over everything when I least expected it.
I certainly didn’t expect it to be my roommate.
Aria.
---
I moved into our tiny two-bedroom at the end of August, sweating through my T-shirt as the movers scraped my bookshelf against the stairwell and pretended not to notice. I was peeling tape off the last box when the front door jingled.
She stepped in like light followed her—two plants in her hands, cardigan knotted at her waist, sunglasses perched in her hair.
“Oh! You must be miles” she said, shifting a pot to shake my hand. “I’m Aria. Your new roommate and your soon-to-be emotional support human.”
Within minutes she’d filled our windowsill with plants.
“They’re my green children,” she announced. “Quiet, low maintenance, and I’m allowed to leave them alone.”
“You name them?” I asked.
“Of course. This one is Benedict Cumber-plant. That big one is Beyoncé.”
I tried not to smile. I failed.
From that moment, the apartment felt less like an empty space and more like a place someone actually lived.
Someone impossible not to notice.
---
We slipped into an easy rhythm. I worked nine-to-five at a publishing house; she freelanced as an illustrator, staying up late or waking absurdly early depending on her mood and deadlines. We didn’t see each other constantly, but somehow we saw each other exactly when it mattered.
The night I came home drained from meetings, she silently handed me hot chocolate. When she panicked about a looming deadline, I sat beside her sorting pencils while she sketched. Some part of me leaned closer than necessary; some part of her didn’t move away.
I ignored the warmth blooming in my chest when she laughed. I blamed exhaustion for the flutter I felt when she walked into the room. I pretended the ache I felt seeing her smile at strangers was normal.
It’s not love, I told myself.
Just proximity.
Just friendship.
But the truth was already rooting itself inside me.
---
The moment everything changed wasn’t dramatic. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The power went out, plunging the apartment into dim gray light.
“Did someone forget to sacrifice something to the electricity gods?” Aria asked, appearing in the hallway with messy hair and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder.
We sat cross-legged at the coffee table, playing a card game she refused to explain properly. I lost repeatedly. She laughed every time.
Thunder cracked outside.
“Do storms freak you out?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
She studied me. Then she reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and murmured, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Her touch was light, but something inside me dropped—then soared.
By the time I breathed again, I knew the truth. I wasn’t just fond of her. I wasn’t just comfortable around her.
I was falling. Hard.
And judging by the softness in her gaze, she knew it before I did.
---
I handled this realization by doing the most sensible thing possible: avoiding her like a coward.
Not dramatically—just enough that she couldn’t corner me with that searching look. I pretended to be busy, left early, lingered in my room. Meanwhile she continued being effortlessly, devastatingly kind.
She brought me tea. Left doodles on sticky notes near my laptop. Played my favorite songs without comment.
I was falling apart quietly. She was watering plants like everything was normal.
---
A week after the storm, I came home late to the smell of something warm. Aria stood at the stove wearing a penguin-print apron, barefoot and humming.
“You look exhausted,” she said softly. “Sit. Dinner’s almost done.”
“You cooked?” I asked.
“I was hungry. And you get cranky when you don’t eat.”
“I do not.”
“You once threatened a toaster.”
“It burned my bagel.”
“It was doing its best.”
The pasta was delicious. She watched me eat with a slow, warm smile that made my heart feel too big.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“Always,” she replied.
And that word—always—settled deep inside me, dangerous and bright.
---
I didn’t confess. I wanted to. I rehearsed countless versions of the words, but each time fear strangled them.
What if I ruined everything? What if she didn’t feel the same? What if losing her was the price?
So I stayed silent.
And loved her in the spaces between moments.
---
The tipping point was the fall festival.
Aria asked me on a cold October morning, “Want to go this weekend? Lantern release, caramel apples, live music. Just you and me.”
Just us. The thought alone made my stomach flutter.
We spent the day wandering through colorful stalls. She bought a frog-shaped beanie. Dragged me into a photo booth. Held my arm as we navigated crowds. Every time she laughed, something inside me leaned toward her without permission.
When the lantern release began, hundreds of glowing lights floated above us like drifting stars.
“Make a wish,” she whispered.
I could have wished for her.
Instead, I said, “You go first.”
She held the lantern to her chest, eyes closed. When she looked at me again, something unspoken flickered there. Something that made my heartbeat stumble.
She released the lantern. I released mine. But my real wish stayed stuck inside my ribs.
---
The walk home was quiet. Near our building, she stopped.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
My breath caught. “Sure.”
“Do you… like someone?”
I froze.
This was it. The perfect opening. The moment to be brave.
But fear surged up, relentless.
“No,” I blurted.
Her face shifted just slightly—soft disappointment, quickly masked.
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
But her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
She walked upstairs alone.
And I followed, hollow with regret.
---
I couldn’t sleep that night. At midnight I went to her door, lifted my hand to knock—
And let it fall.
I walked away from the one person I wanted most.
I didn’t know then how much that silence would cost me.
Because love, once it settles in your life, doesn’t leave gently.
My story with Aria was only beginning.
- Writer
