They had everything in common. Most nights they would find themselves sitting on her bed, staying up hours after the other roommates had fallen asleep, just talking. She kept her scuffed-up white laptop on an end table in the corner. Before he came over she would always set it to a new playlist of shuffled up favourites—his, hers, theirs. Some nights he’d bring his guitar, and he’d sing as her eyes were closing, will it mean much to you if I treat you right…
She didn’t even care if he saw her changing. Definitely not after he told her she was crazy to worry about her figure so much. That cheeky grin had got him a lot of girls in the past. Their conversation would usually steer to one of his old stories—like the ice cream server he’d got to fool around with him in the back of a Baskin Robbins—and she’d laugh into his shoulder about those other ones, happy that she was the closest.
But one night, after he’d hugged her and was just walking to the door, a voice that she did not recognize as her own crossed her lips, telling him he did not have to go. So he smiled, put his guitar down on a chair, and came into her bed, changing everything.
He left while it was still early morning. He’d sleep better on his own, he said, giving her a small kiss on the forehead. She didn’t get out of bed at all that day, but just lay there under the covers, wondering what the hell she’d just done.
