lea⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

The apartment was eerily quiet when you let yourself in, opposed to the constant hum of the TV or some game your boyfriend would always play when he was home. You almost called out for him. Almost. But it was the kitten heels kicked off carelessly by the door, ones that definitely weren't yours, that stopped you. You stood there for a second, doing the math in your brain that you had never wanted to do. 

Then you heard it. Voices, a female laugh coming from your bedroom, with his laugh following swiftly. You quietly, without even processing it, walked down the hallway to see your bedroom door slightly ajar. 

You saw enough. You saw more than enough. 

The takeout bag in your hand hit the floor before you even registered that you dropped it, the plastic crinkling loud against the floor. The two heads in the bedroom turned towards you at the same time, and frozen silence followed every corner of the apartment. 

His face went through ten different emotions in the span of a second, none of them landing anywhere close to guilt. 

“You said you were coming back Thursday,” he muttered out as if that would fix everything. You looked at him for a long moment, shocked that those were the first words to come out of his mouth. You glanced at the girl scrambling for the sheet as if that would fix anything.

"I got an earlier flight," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt, steadier than you had any right to feel. "Guess we're both full of surprises tonight."

You didn't wait for whatever he was going to say next. You turned, walked back down the hallway, picked your shoes back up off the floor, your car keys from the drawer, and left the takeout bag exactly where it had fallen.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

You ended up driving aimlessly for a few hours, debating on whether or not to call your boyfriend’s – no-no, ex-boyfriend’s mum and tell her off about what kind of son she raised. You debated burning your apartment down with him in it. But you decided on being the mature one, and texted your best friend four simple words. 

Can I come over

The reply came back almost instantly. omg yes obviously are you okay what happened

You didn’t have it in you to respond. 

By the time you knocked, more of a weak, uneven rap against the door than anything, you'd cried exactly twice in the car, both times short and furious, more anger than grief, though you suspected the grief was coming. 

Thea swung the door open so fast it almost gave you whiplash, worry and fear written across her face. She took one look at you, still in your travel clothes from yesterday that you’d sent her beforehand, hair a mess, eyes red-brimmed, and didn’t ask you a single question. She already knew what had happened. She just pulled you inside, hugged you from the side so tightly you could feel yourself getting squeezed, and just guided you towards her couch. 

She knew not to ask you questions right now, so she just held you tight as you sobbed into her arm wordlessly. "Okay," she said into your hair, voice low and careful in a way that made something in your chest loosen just slightly. "Okay. I've got you. Whatever happened, I've got you.” 

"He cheated," you finally managed, voice cracking somewhere in the middle of the second word. "I came home early and he. He was. There was someone else. In our bed."

Her arms tightened around you immediately. "That absolute—" she started, then seemed to catch herself, pulling back just enough to look at your face properly. "Okay. Not right now. Right now we're getting you a very large glass of wine and you are not going back to that apartment tonight." 

"I wasn't planning on it," you said, and something almost like a laugh escaped you, hollow and disbelieving.

"You're staying here as long as you need. Weeks. Months. I don't care. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow." You sank into the couch cushions, suddenly aware of exactly how exhausted you were, jet lag and heartbreak conspiring together into something that felt bone-deep. "I can't stay on your couch forever."

"You can stay on my couch for exactly as long as it takes for me to help you plot his downfall," she said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning a moment later with two generously poured glasses of wine, handing you one like it was a sacred offering. "Drink. Cry. We'll deal with logistics tomorrow."

You wrapped both hands around the glass, staring into it rather than at her, still faintly convinced that if you looked away for too long you'd wake up and none of it would have happened at all.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

By the time Thea had allowed herself to go to sleep, you were practically done with the stages of grief. There had been a lot of wine, a full pint of ice cream demolished straight from the carton between the two of you, and now you'd landed on the couch, settled in front of the TV ready to watch whatever movie you would find first, to give your brain something else to do besides replay the same five seconds on a loop.

Halfway through La La Land, it hit you. If you let yourself get too settled here, too comfortable on this couch, you'd never actually want to leave. You'd just keep sinking further into it, using Thea’s spare cushions as an excuse to avoid dealing with anything, and just continue to dwell on a relationship that apparently was going nowhere.

That’s how you ended up sat cross-legged at the end of the couch, with Thea’s laptop perched up on your lap, endlessly scrolling through any and all apartment listings you could find, the blue light from the screen being the only thing illuminating the room while Thea’s soft snoring drifted in from the bedroom down the hall. You kept telling yourself that you were only taking a look, you weren’t going to commit to any apartment listing, just to see what’s out there. 

But now you were three coffees deep, with the wine hangover slowly creeping in, as you constantly refreshed the listings page for what felt like the hundredth time, scrolling past overpriced and soulless studios and windowless rooms advertised as "cozy," each one somehow worse than the last. 

Just as you were about to give up, close the laptop, and drift to sleep with the possibility of being homeless, when one listing caught your eye. Spacious loft, 4th roommate wanted, close to everything, easygoing household. The photos looked genuinely decent, exposed brick, nice and thoughtful decor, natural light filling every single room through the big loft windows. 

You clicked in before you could second-guess it, eyes scanning the description, written in a casual, slightly rambling tone that read distinctly like it had been typed out at speed by someone who didn't proofread. It was signed off at the bottom with a single name: Chip.

Something about the whole listing, whether it be the weirdly descriptive writing, the soft phrasing, the mention of "girls' night snacks always stocked," the little heart emoji next to the rent price, had you assuming, without a shred of actual evidence, that you were looking at three girls looking for a fourth. 

You started picturing instantly. Girls nights, watching movies, baking and cooking together, sharing skincare products, wine nights with someone other than the person who was sound asleep down the hallway from you. 

You fired off a message to Chip before you could talk yourself out of it, fingers moving faster than your better judgment. 

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

After receiving confirmation of an interview from Chip, you had a week to stress. Thea helped you get your essentials from your old apartment, leaving you with ample amounts of time to prepare yourself for any question the girls might ask you, and how you could prove to them you would be the perfect roommate for them. 

So by the time interview day rolled around, you had a folder. An actual physical folder, complete with a printed reference letter from your old landlords, a neatly typed list of your "roommate strengths," and a laminated copy of your credit score that Thea had mercilessly mocked you for the entire morning.

“You do realize you’re applying for a room, not for a job,” she'd said, watching you rehearse your opening line in the hallway mirror for the third time. You'd spent the better part of the week building an entire mental picture of who you'd be walking into. Three girls, effortlessly put together, the kind who'd have a shared Pinterest board for the living room and a strict but fair chore rotation. 

You insisted on taking the tube to go there, telling Thea that you needed to do this on your own. You'd walked out of the station clutching your folder like a shield, running through a mental checklist of every conceivable question they might ask. What's your cleaning style? Are you a morning person? How do you feel about guests over on weeknights? You had an answer ready for all of it.

So as you approached the building you were sure that you were prepared for anything and everything those three girls would throw at you. You went up to the third floor, found apartment 3F, and cautiously knocked. What you were not ready for was the loft door swinging open to reveal, not three girls with a shared skincare drawer, but a guy in gym wear, mid-argument with someone you couldn't see. 

You blinked at him. He blinked back. 

“...Oh,” you said in an apologetic tone “I think I have the wrong apartment.” Already taking a step back to double, triple-check the apartment number. "Depends," he said, leaning against the doorframe like this was a perfectly normal way to greet a stranger. "Wrong place for what?"

“I'm here about the room. The listing." You held up your phone as if that would somehow prove you weren't insane, or in the wrong building entirely. "For Chip?" 

Something shifted in his expression, recognition mixed with what looked suspiciously like barely-contained amusement. "Ah." He turned his head, calling back into the apartment without ever taking his eyes off you. "Josh! Your little advert's here!"