Chapter 3: Stranger Danger (and Dirty Dishes)

When the realtor first told me a woman would be moving in, I was against it.

We’re adults—way past those sitcom fantasies where sharing an apartment magically leads to romance. Even TV writers don’t bother with that cliché anymore.

A new roommate means trouble, less privacy, and a ton of headaches. I was already dreading silent kitchen encounters, passive-aggressive sticky notes, and awkward who-used-the-last-of-the-milk confrontations.

So why did I agree?

Because of two texts.

First, the realtor sent a transfer notice: from this month on, the rent would be split fifty-fifty, and he Venmo’d me $175.

Second, he sent me a chat message with a photo attached. It was Rachel.

Yeah, she was really pretty. I tried to keep my cool, but failed. Her photo showed a kind of effortless confidence—bright eyes, a crooked half-smile, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. For a split second—just a ten-thousandth of a second—I thought, having a beauty around might not be so bad.

On her first day, I thought I’d be a gentleman and help with her luggage.

"Let me help you with your suitcase."

"Did you even wash your hands first?"

My hand, halfway out like a thief reaching for a cop’s handcuffs, froze in midair—couldn’t move forward, couldn’t pull back.

I awkwardly stepped aside and watched her small frame drag the giant suitcase in. I even forgot to introduce myself.

She didn’t bother introducing herself either. The moment she walked in, her brows furrowed. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the smell of old takeout and something I could never quite get rid of.

I knew what was bothering her: the place had a musty, decaying smell, just like most disappointing lives.

It took me a while to get used to it, too. I remembered the first night I moved in—windows open, air freshener bombs, candles flickering on every surface. It still wasn’t enough to mask the underlying funk of years gone by.

"You have a key, right? I’m heading out."

She gave a noncommittal "mm" through her nose. I didn’t bother arguing—just walked out.

That night, I was out eating with a friend and didn’t get home until after ten.

Still groggy, I stumbled into my room and froze.

"Is this really my room?"

The floor was spotless, my usual mess of materials neatly arranged. Except for the bedding, which was as I’d left it, everything else had been tidied up.

Honestly, having a neat freak around wasn’t so bad.

My desk looked like something out of an IKEA catalog. Cables coiled. Magazines stacked. I almost didn’t recognize it. I slept like a baby that night.

The next day, when I went to work, I found my notes on the desk were gone. More importantly, my USB drive—my lifeline, where I stored all my inspiration—was missing too.

"Uh... Rachel, did you tidy up my room yesterday?"

"No need to thank me." She kept her head down, toothbrush in her mouth, words muffled.

"That’s not what I meant. Did you see a few sheets of paper on my desk?"

"I threw them out."

Wow, I’d never seen anyone touch other people’s stuff with so much confidence.

"Rachel, couldn’t you have asked before tossing my things?"

"They were all drawings of ghosts and monsters. I got creeped out just looking at them."

"I’m a paranormal blogger! What do you expect me to draw if not ghosts?"

She turned around and wiped the toothpaste foam from her mouth. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever, that’s not the main thing. Did you see my USB drive on the desk?"

"Didn’t see it."

"You were the only one in my room yesterday. If you didn’t see it, who did?"

She brushed past me, packing up in a hurry. "I have to get to work. It’s just a broken USB, I’ll buy you a new one."

"Rachel, it’s not just a USB! There were dozens of gigs of stuff on there."

"What, you mean—like, your secret movie stash?"

"Movies, my foot! I mean inspiration!"

"I don’t know, I didn’t touch it. Don’t block the door."

With a bang, the front door slammed shut, shaking down a few wisps of dust—along with my broken heart.