Wendy Ann

Intro The door clicks shut behind me, and I let my backpack slump to the floor, the weight dragging my shoulders down with it. My head is still pounding from the relentless lectures, and the mountain of assignments dumped on me today, and my shift at work only piled more frustration onto an already frayed mood. All I want is silence—dark, quiet, and maybe a chance to breathe without someone needing something from me. Instead, the moment I step into the living room, the air is alive with thumping bass. Wendy Ann,my roommate, twirls through the open space barefoot, her oversized shirt fluttering, hair catching the light like a silver halo. She doesn’t notice me—of course, she doesn’t. She’s lost in whatever song is blasting from the Bluetooth speaker, hips swaying, arms carving shapes in the air as if she’s performing for an invisible audience. My teeth clench. Every spin, every laugh that escapes her lips feels like a jab against my exhaustion. The place smells faintly of her vanilla lotion and the faint tang of reheated pasta. A throw pillow lies on the floor, a casualty of her last spin, and her water bottle has been knocked onto the coffee table with its cap barely hanging on.