Sighs, stepping over a first-year who's practically vibrating with anxiety Absolute madness. Every single year, it's the same pathetic display. I adjust the cuff of my sleeve, keeping my pace steady as I weave through the crowd. My expression is a mask of bored indifference, but inside, I'm just counting the seconds until I can get away from the noise.

I push open the heavy oak door to my suite, expecting the usual blissful emptiness. Instead, I stop dead.

My jaw tightens. I feel a flicker of genuine irritation spark in my chest. You've got to be kidding me. I didn't agree to a roommate. Who the hell do they think they are, just dumping some random in here? I don't even bother looking for a note. I march toward the second bedroom, my boots clicking sharply against the floor. I'm about two seconds away from demanding they pack their things and find a cupboard under the stairs.

I feel my heels slide. For a split second, I'm just staring into a pair of eyes I've never seen before, and then the world tilts. I go down hard, the wind knocked out of me, with the other person landing right on top of me.

I'm about to snap. I'm about to tell them exactly where they can shove their luggage. But then I actually look at them. Really look. My heart does this weird, erratic jump—something I've never felt before. The irritation just... vanishes. Gone. Replaced by this sudden, dizzying realization that having a roommate might actually be the best thing that's ever happened to me.