Dorm Room 210 [Rewrite]

Chapter 4

It's been three days since the muck of my move-in and judging from the way Noah and I act around each other, we've come up with a routine involving little to no disruptions for our respective roommate.

Each morning I have the dorm to myself. Besides the chirps from nearby birds and the humming of the fridge, the place is relatively quiet. Making a cup of coffee in my newly purchased mug, I sit on the bench by the window and work on a sketch before browsing my social media flooding with gorgeous pieces, either crafted by a designer or a rising star. I take my prescribed medication as I have for a month before jumping in the shower and brushing my teeth. Having the quiet morning for myself means the ugly voice inside my head is nothing more than an invisible phantom sitting on my shoulders — unless I think about it, I don't acknowledge its presence. It works until Noah comes around.

Nothing I say can reduce the awkward tension shifting between us when we're both in the dorm. It's painfully obvious how right Noah is to assume I need time to get comfortable with the environment I've been forced to occupy.

No, not forced. My options were limited from the beginning but I chose this.

And it mocks me.

"How's your morning been so far?"

I glance from the continuous scroll on my phone to Noah's leaning position by the kitchen eating a steaming bowl of instant Raman noodles. He doesn't spike up questions when he's here, and I refrain from asking him any myself. He sounds polite, but I can't tell if it's out of good mannerism or genuine curiosity.

"Peaceful," I say, closing the app. "I'm not used to quiet mornings. Usually, I'll wake up to studio-audience laughing and sit-com re-runs. Are you loud in the mornings?"

He smiles behind his fork. "You won't wake up to any TV shows, but I can't promise you quiet."

"Should I be prepared for banging pots and pans?"

"I like listening to music when I'm doing things. Or sometimes I talk to myself when I'm on the sewing machine when I feel like working on something." He slurps his noodles.

I straighten my spine. "What kind of things do you like making?"

"You see this?" He points at the sections on his shirt laced with black material. "Re-did the sleeves and pocket shirt with polyester. The shirt felt great on me, but it didn't have that eye-catching factor to it. It's what I like to do."

"So, you like to re-design clothes?" He nods into his food. After a moment of silence, I get up to my suitcase and pull out a long coffee coat with gold sticking on the collar. Noah watches as I slip it on. "I made this a year ago after accidentally leaving my jacket at an art museum. It took me weeks to finish. I stupidly messed up the pockets."

He puts aside his lunch and walks over to where I stand, bending slightly at the waist. That's when I point out the difference. He stops short and a burst of laughter tumbles out. "How did you manage that?"

"I didn't want to use pins 'cause lumps appear, so I winged it."

"You did one hell of a job," he says.

I'm not sure whether he means that as a joke, but I take my coat off and place it back in the suitcase. I end up going back to my sketching on the bench by the window and Noah finishes off his food. He then grabs his keys, wallet, and phone before heading outside, not an ounce of a goodbye.

You did something. Its overwhelmingly enthusiastic accusation paralysis my hand movements. I stay stuck as it repeats itself, trying hard to override it with logic. But with the empty kitchen and the humming fridge, the once peaceful white noise now has a hefty weight on my mood.