Page 84 of Resisting my Roommate

I close my eyes and try to picture Sycamore Falls. The quiet streets lined with shops and smiling faces. The rustling of the wind through the trees, carrying with it a sense of peace and tranquility. The distant sound of the frogs croaking in the middle of the night, their melodic tune lulling me to sleep.

For a second, I can almost smell the clean air. Can taste the rich, frothy beer on my tongue. Can feel the soft whisper of Jude’s lips against my skin.

All too soon, the subway jerks to a stop, and the sound of the doors hissing open brings me crashing back to reality. I sigh and pull myself to my feet, my legs heavy as I follow the mass of people spilling out onto the platform.

When I emerge onto the street, the city is alive around me, even at this late hour. The relentless frenzy of traffic and conversation surrounds me, reminding me I’m only one small piece in this massive puzzle.

I keep my head lowered, trying to block out the noise, but it’s impossible. Everything’s louder here. Bigger. Like the city is always moving. Always demanding attention.

I hurry past concrete building after concrete building, each one looming high above, cutting into the night sky like jagged teeth. It’s all so overwhelming. This place. This life I’ve been trying to convince myself I want.

Yet, all I can think about is how much I miss the quiet. The open space. The stars sparkling brightly in the night sky over Sycamore Falls.

I miss the way time seemed to slow down there, like you could actually breathe. Like you had room to think.

I miss walking down the street, everyone I ran into welcoming and friendly, even if they were complete strangers.

But more than anything I misshim.

I cross the street, dodging a group of tourists huddled together, staring up at the skyline in awe. There was a time I felt that way whenever I visited a big city. The excitement, the energy — it all seemed so full of possibilities with a new adventure around every corner.

Now it just feels hollow. Like I’m running on autopilot, going through the motions without really feeling anything.

Like I don’t belong.

As I turn the corner onto my block, I pass a bar with people spilling out of it, laughter echoing in the air. It reminds me of Jude’s taproom, though nothing here could ever feel as warm or welcoming. I quicken my pace, wanting nothing more than to escape the noise, the crowds. I just want to be alone, to shut everything out.

When I reach my building, I glance up at the windows — rectangles stacked on top of each other, all full of people living their lives in a city that’s swallowed me whole.

Fumbling for my keys, I find them and unlock the door, heading for the elevator. It’s a slow climb to the sixth floor when all I want to do is crawl into bed and hope for a better day tomorrow.

But when the elevator finally opens into the hallway and I step out, I come to an abrupt stop when my gaze falls on a figure sitting outside of my apartment.

His head rests against the wall, his eyes closed. He looks worn, his usually sharp features softened by something I can’t quite put my finger on. He looks so out of place here, making me think I must be dreaming.

“Jude?” I whisper, worried the dream will end and he’ll disappear the second I speak.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, he jumps to his feet, his deep brown eyes locking on mine. For a moment, we simply stare at each other in silence. I can’t find the words, too stunned, too overwhelmed by the sight of him here, in this city, outside my door.

Then I notice the bandages on his hands, and I rush toward him, grabbing them in mine without thinking. It doesn’t matter how much he hurt me. I’ll always care about him.

“What happened? Was there an accident at the brewery?”

“I got into a fight with a crib.” He chuckles, the raspy sound hitting me in places I wish wouldn’t react to him. “I guess you could say the crib won. Or maybe I’ve been letting the crib win for too long now.”

I release him, shaking my head. “I don’t?—”

“Can we go inside and talk?” Jude interrupts, gesturing toward my apartment. “There are things you deserve to hear, and I’d rather your neighbors not have a front-row seat.”

“Sure.” I turn toward my door and unlock it, hyperaware of his presence mere inches away as we step inside.

Flicking on the light, I lead him into my tiny studio apartment. Since this building is mainly used for short-term rentals, it lacks any personal touch or charm — plain white walls with art prints you’d probably find at a medical office.

“Nice place,” Jude remarks, breaking the silence.

“It’s awful,” I shoot back as I drop my bag onto the floor. “I’ll find something better eventually.”

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