MY ROOM MATE BY ITORO ISAAC

Chapter One: The Unwanted Silence The first night I moved into the new apartment, I told myself the silence was a blessing. After months of loud hallways, slamming doors, and neighbors who argued until dawn, the quiet felt almost supernatural in its perfection. But silence has weight. And as I sat on my bed staring at the empty half of the room, I felt that weight pressing against me, thick and unnatural, as though the air itself were waiting for something to happen. I hadn’t met my roommate yet. The landlord had only said, “He’s a quiet one. Keeps to himself. You’ll like him.” No name, no details, just that vague reassurance. The bed across from mine was neatly made — too neatly. The blanket was tucked in with military precision, and the pillow sat centered as if no one had ever dared to lay their head on it. Above the bed, the wall was bare except for a single nail that hung crookedly, as if it had once carried something heavy but now held only memory. I unpacked slowly, my ears straining. Every creak of the building made me stiffen. My window overlooked the street, but the blinds rattled even when there was no breeze. I kept telling myself that new places always felt strange at first. By midnight, I lay in bed with the lights off, trying to sleep. That was when I heard it. A whisper. Not loud enough to catch words, not soft enough to dismiss as imagination. It came from the other bed. The empty bed. I froze, clutching my blanket. My breath quickened, but I forced myself to listen. The whispering went on for a full minute, like someone speaking in a language I didn’t know, then it stopped. The silence that followed was even heavier, pressing against my chest. I dared to turn on my phone’s flashlight and aimed it across the room. The bed was still empty. Perfectly made. I swallowed hard and laughed nervously at myself. “Great start,” I muttered. “Scaring myself on day one.” But when I set the phone down, I noticed something I hadn’t before. On the desk beside my roommate’s bed sat a notebook. I could have sworn it wasn’t there when I moved in. Its cover was old, cracked, the color of dried blood. And on its surface, written in faint white chalk, was a single word: “MINE.” The whisper came again. This time closer.