Page 2 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

“Really? You have no interest in men?” I was just fishing for facts at this point, perhaps because is some dark corner of my heart, I was interested in Sophie Mercer, like a flower drawn to the sun’s light.

“None whatsoever, unless it’s platonic.”

The casual comment—a flippant statement about her sexuality —hit me like a gut punch, flooding the panic with a wave of hot, unwanted, undeniable attraction. I looked at her, feeling my heartbeat echo in my ears, and wondered what my life would’ve been like if I’d fallen for someone like her instead of Riley. No, I shouldn’t even be thinking of such things. This year was all about isolation. My carefully constructed walls were already crumbling, and the intruder hadn't even unpacked her first box.

The universe, apparently, loved a joke. The last thing I needed was a gorgeous and sunny lesbian roommate.

Just then, a frazzled, clipboard-wielding RA peered in from the hallway.

“Girls? Are you 418? Yes. I am so sorry, but we’ve got limited housing this year. You’ll be together for at least the next month. I’m sorry, we have no single rooms available this semester. I’ll check back then. Have a great year!”

The door closed with a click, leaving us in the turpentine-scented silence.

Sophie smiled that blindingly charming smile again, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck together, Hart.”

“Don’t call me Hart,” I gritted out, taking a defensive step back.

“Sure, Iris,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, teasing register. “But try to relax. All the best artists are a little tortured, right? So, what’s your story?”

The romantic tension disguised as hostility was immediate and sharp. I hated her for seeing me, and I hated myself for wanting to be seen. I folded my arms, prickly and defensive.

“Just stay on your side of the room, Mercer. We’re not discussing my life or anything else.”

Sophie just picked up her massive duffel bag, tossed it onto the empty bed frame with a practiced athlete’s grace, and winked.

“Whatever you want. This year’s going to be so much fun.”

The air in the room was thick, not just with turpentine, but with the suffocating pressure of a conversation that wasn't happening. After the RA left, Sophie, with a dismissive shrug, had started efficiently moving her boxes. She cleared the space around her bed, creating an immediate zone of neat, athletic order that was the antithesis of my glorious, scattered chaos.

I pretended to organize paintbrushes, keeping my back to her. But every movement she made pulled my attention like a magnetic force.

A rustle of fabric, and I knew she was changing. My breathing hitched. I kept my eyes fixed on the stiff bristles of a fan brush, refusing to look.

"Seriously, Hart, are you going to breathe the entire time you're looking at that?" she teased.

My head snapped up. She was standing by her bed, pulling a fresh t-shirt over her head. It was athletic-casual, a dark color that made the blonde of her pixie cut look even brighter, and the movement gave me a fleeting, dizzying glimpse of muscle and skin. The clothes were hot, effortless, and entirely unlike anything I would ever own.

She caught my stare, and her eyes danced with knowing amusement.

"The common room party starts in twenty," she announced, pulling her laces tight on a pair of immaculate white sneakers. She stepped closer, invading the invisible boundary line I’d tried to draw between our halves of the room.

The warmth radiating off her felt like a physical invitation. "Come on, Hart. You can't hide in this turpentine fume chamber all night." Her smile was genuine, lacking the snark from before.

A pang of longing, sharp and unexpected, twisted in my chest. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to be included. I wanted that easy, golden-hour confidence she carried, and I suddenly felt desperate to walk into that common room with her.

But the panic was a colder, stronger force. To go with her was to take down the wall, to risk being seen, and to risk being hurt.

"I'm not a party person," I shut her down flatly, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I have work."

Sophie’s visible disappointment was immediate, a small, dark shadow momentarily clouding the brightness in her eyes. Her smile flickered and died.

"Right," she murmured, respecting the boundary but not the spirit of my refusal. She gave me a long, lingering look—a look that felt less like hostility and more like genuine concern—before she turned away and strode toward the door.

“See you later, artist,” she said softly, then she was gone.

The click of the door closing echoed in the sudden silence.

I stayed frozen for a full minute, then I slumped against my easel, the tension draining out of me and leaving me weak. The silence I had craved now felt deafening, hollowed out by her absence.