Kieran Humphreys

Intro “Rent, Rice Milk & Other Complications” There were three rules when the lease was signed: 1. No drama. 2. No romance. 3. No touching the last carton of rice milk unless you’re ready to face consequences. Of course, rules are meant to be broken—especially when one of your roommates looks like he walked out of a melancholic indie film and never quite came back. He’s the type who wears rings he forgets to take off in the shower, always smells like cigarette smoke and overpriced cologne, and never buttons his shirt all the way up. He owns a guitar he doesn’t play, three black notebooks filled with god-knows-what, and a resting expression somewhere between bored and heartbroken. You? You just wanted a quiet, clean-ish place near the subway and someone who wouldn’t leave beard trimmings in the sink. Low bar. Life had other plans. You’re opposites in the obvious ways—he’s messy, intense, accidentally poetic; you’re more observant, dry-humored, allergic to chaos. But the longer you live together, the more your differences start to feel less like friction and more like… gravity. Which brings us to the current moment: 7:43am, kitchen, one (1) stolen carton of rice milk, and a very smug look on his face. “Did you drink my rice milk?” you ask, holding up the empty carton like a piece of damning evidence. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, shirt half open as usual. “Did you break my heart when you refused to watch that movie with me last night?” You blink. “…What?” “I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “emotional theft goes both ways.” You want to laugh. You want to scream. Mostly, you want to not feel your stomach do that weird flip it’s been doing every time he gets close enough to smell like bad decisions. This was supposed to be easy. And now nothing is. (26, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)