The roommate interview you wanted to know about?
I picked Shang-Java because it’s public, loud enough to disappear into, and familiar enough that my body doesn’t betray me when I lie.
Lunch break.
Civilian Tag.
I got there early and claimed a table with my back to the wall—good sightlines, no mirrors. I leaned back in the chair, ankle crossed over my knee, phone face-down like I wasn’t waiting on anything.
Melanie passed by once, slowed, and looked at me.
“You meeting someone?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She studied my posture. My face.
“You look like you’re negotiating something,” she said.
Then she walked away.
Auré came in five minutes later.
Black fitted hooded leather jacket. Glasses. White crop top underneath that read:
COME CORRECT, OR DON’T COME.
Of course it was Marie Janae merch. Of course Auré wore it like it wasn’t an announcement. She looked good—predictably, irritatingly good. The kind of good that makes you resent time for not dulling anything.
She went straight to the counter.
Cassie clocked the shirt instantly.
“Oh my god,” Cassie said, pointing lightly. “Is that Marie Janae?”
Auré laughed. “Yeah. I’m obsessed.”
“Same,” Cassie said without hesitation. “Did you see Squeal yet?”
My shoulders went tight.
“Yes,” Auré said, eyes widening. “The twist?”
“I KNOW,” Cassie dropped her voice dramatically. “I won’t spoil it, but I screamed.”
“Neve Campbell was unhinged,” Auré said reverently.
“Cinema,” Cassie agreed.
They laughed—easy, unguarded. Cassie rang up Auré’s green tea, still talking about how Oliver Kushmore keeps getting away with genre murder. Then Auré turned, scanned the shop, and found me.
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Her smile softened.
“Tag?” she asked.
I stood, casual. “Yeah.”
She stepped closer, eyes flicking over me—curious, not suspicious.
“It’s really nice to finally meet you in person,” she said.
“Likewise,” I replied, leaning back against the chair instead of toward her. Cool. Detached. Definitely not cataloging everything.
She sat across from me immediately, leaning in, elbows on the table, tea between her hands.
I leaned back harder.
“So,” she said, smiling, “Tag. Is that—your full name?”
“No,” I said smoothly. “Short for Tagavich.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh. That’s cool.”
“It’s German,” I added, because apparently I was excellent at this now.
“That accent earlier?” she said. “I thought you were toning it down.”
“I get that a lot,” I replied. Internally: Since when?
She laughed. “I like it. Very gothic exchange student.”
“High praise,” I deadpanned.
“It is,” she insisted, glancing at my clothes. “I love your aesthetic, by the way. Very deliberate.”
Compliment. Casual. Respectful.
I nodded like it didn’t land.
We talked logistics—housing, rent, utilities. Verona administration and its talent for ruining lives with paperwork.
When I mentioned housing screwing me over, her expression shifted instantly.
“That’s awful,” she said. “Verona housing is brutal. I moved off campus last year just to avoid the chaos.”
“After…?” I prompted, gently.
“My ex was expelled,” she said carefully. “We weren’t living together. I just needed distance from the fallout. Everything got loud.”
Concern. Not cruelty.
Still not the version I’d prepared myself for.
“I just want calm now,” she added. “Safe. No drama.”
Safe.
She looked at me when she said it.
“I’m boring,” I said. “Low drama.”
She smiled like that mattered.
We went over boundaries. Guests. Schedules. Quiet hours. I answered honestly, carefully, never leaning forward.
Eventually she checked her phone and sighed. “I have another meeting.”
She reached into her bag and placed a key on the table between us.
“You can move in tomorrow,” she said. “If you want.”
Just like that.
“I think you’re safe,” she added. “And honestly? I’m excited to get to know you.”
She stood, slipped her jacket back on, and left.
I stayed seated.
Against my will, I noticed she’d been working out—the way her jeans fit now, the confidence in her stride. Growth looked good on her.
The interview was a success.
That’s when Melanie came back.
She didn’t look at the key. She looked at my face.
My mouth betrayed me.
A smirk. Barely there. Gone too late.
“Don’t,” Melanie said quietly.
“Don’t what?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “Whatever that was.”
“It was nothing.”
“You look satisfied,” she said. “That wasn’t an interview face. That was a win.”
I didn’t answer.
“Just be careful,” she said. Not a warning. A request.
I nodded.
It was a lie.
JB slid into the empty chair like he’d been summoned by bad timing.
“Okay, but,” he grinned, “she was totally flirting with you.”
Silence.
Cassie scoffed first. “She was just being friendly.”
“Yeah,” Melanie added flatly. “That’s called a personality.”
“I’m just saying,” JB shrugged. “She’s hot.”
The three of us looked at him.
In unison.
I scoffed.
Cassie rolled her eyes.
Melanie sighed like she was tired of men as a concept.
“Go restock cups,” Melanie said.
JB laughed, backing away. “Worth it.”
Cassie lingered a second, glancing at the door Auré had left through.
“Your tea girl seemed nice,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” I replied. “She is.”
She went back to work.
Melanie looked at the key. Then at me.
“You good?” she asked again.
“Yeah.”
She didn’t believe me. She didn’t push.
I pocketed the key.
?
The memory loosens eventually.
Now I’m standing in her house.
Boxes stacked by the door. My boxes. Labeled carefully. Clothes. Books. Kitchen. Nothing sentimental.
I tell myself I’m just getting oriented.
I clock exits first. Front door. Back door. Sliding door that doesn’t lock unless you force it. Noted.
The living room tells me nothing. Framed photos turned face-down. Intentional.
The kitchen irritates me more—protein powder, blender, meal-prep container labeled TUESDAY.
She’s building routines.
I open cabinets under the excuse of unpacking. Nothing exciting. No mess. No bottles.
Disappointing.
Her door is closed.
I stop there longer than necessary.
Not touching. Just listening. Measuring distance. Thinking about how thin walls can be.
I don’t open it.
Not yet.
My room is last. Neutral. Temporary.
I sit on one of my boxes and listen to the house breathe.
I tell myself I’m not looking for dirt. I’m looking for context. If she lied once, she’ll lie again. If she’s hiding something, I deserve to know.
That’s the story.
Still, I file things away—the calendar, the mail spot, the way she’s erased the past.
People who erase things usually regret them later.
By the time Auré gets home, I’ll be settled. Helpful. Polite. Safe.
She thinks she chose me.
But proximity changes things.
It always does.
She chose distance.
She chose silence.
People like Auré always land on their feet.
Maybe it was time she didn’t.
Maybe she deserved to be knocked down a few pegs.
