Page 18 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “You’re not broken, Iris. You’re just putting yourself back together. And I’m here for you, anytime you need me. It’s amazing that you can create art like this from the pain you went through.”

I pressed my face into her shoulder, breathing her in, letting myself be held without guarding a single inch.

This wasn’t about fear anymore.

It was about trust.

About choosing to stay open.

About loving someone enough to let them see the worst and believe they’d stay anyway.

The truth settled gently, without drama.

I was in love with my roommate.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something that would ruin me.

It felt like something that might save me.

“You know, this dating thing might be growing on me.” I clung to her, our hearts beating together.

“Yeah?” She pressed a kiss on the top of my hair. “I think you’re growing on me too.”

Sophie held me there, steady and sure, and I let myself believe in the quiet promise of us—no labels, no rush, just two people choosing each other in the dark. I was no longer afraid. I was filled with hope.

CHAPTER 5

Iris

Room 418 had developed a new scent. The sharp, clinical bite of turpentine was still there, but it was now softened by the smell of Sophie’s instant coffee and the faint, citrusy trail of her shampoo. We had been getting along great ever since I’d shown her my painting and I was quite enjoying having a girlfriend. We hung out together, sometimes before class, sometimes in our room, and spent our nights together. My sanctuary hadn't been invaded; it had been integrated.

"Iris, did you see where I put my blue highlighter?" Sophie asked, her voice a soft murmur over the low hum of the heater.

"Check under my sketchbook, Sophie," I replied, not looking up from the charcoal study I was working on. "I think I moved it when I was clearing a spot for my water jar earlier."

"Found it," she said, a hint of a smile in her voice. "Thanks. You know, for a 'reclusive artist,' you’re surprisingly good at sharing a desk."

"Don't get used to it," I teased, finally looking over at her. "I still have a reputation to uphold."

"Your reputation is currently being ruined by the fact that you let me steal your favorite hoodie yesterday," she countered, her eyes bright with mischief.

I turned back to my easel, unable to suppress a grin. The dynamic between us had shifted into a rapid, dizzying rhythm that we hadn't bothered to name yet. There were no grand announcements, just the quiet reality of our lives overlapping. I was happy on the inside, a quiet kind of happy that came from being around someone who got you.

It was a Tuesday evening, the kind of night where the silence between us was heavy but not strained. I was at my easel, working on a series of quick charcoal sketches, while Sophie was hunched over her desk, surrounded by playbooks and a laptop glowing with game footage. We hadn't spoken for an hour, but I knew exactly where she was in her study cycle by the way she tapped her pen against her chin. I knew she’d finished her first cup of coffee and was resisting the urge to get a second.

I found myself pausing, charcoal hovering over the paper, just to watch the line of her shoulders. Her reliable presence had become the anchor I didn't know I was allowed to have. My side of the room was still a disaster zone of paint-stained rags and half-finished canvases, but Sophie no longer pointed it out. She just navigated the mess with an instinctive grace, as if my chaos was just another part of the terrain she’d mastered.

The tension in the room usually broke in small, stolen bursts.

I set my charcoal down, my fingers blackened and my neck stiff. The need for contact hit me suddenly—a sharp, insistent pull that I’d stopped trying to fight. I walked over to her, standing behind her chair. Sophie didn't look up, but I saw her posture shift, her breath hitching just slightly in anticipation.

I leaned down, pressing my face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. Sophie let out a soft sigh, tilting her head to give me more room. When I turned my head to press a kiss just below her ear, she finally turned, her hand reaching up to cup the back of my neck.

The kiss was slow, grounding, and entirely private. Kissing her casually was a thing now, and I was proud of the progress I’d made. Sophie was patient, a steady force, always holding me up. She never pushed; she just held the space open, letting me decide how much of myself I was ready to give. And with each passing day, I wanted to give her more.

She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching mine. "You're restless tonight, Iris."

"Just stiff," I lied, though we both knew it was more than that.