Kim

Ken was the worst kind of roommate; loud, lazy, and completely inconsiderate. He treated the apartment like his personal pigsty, dropping dirty laundry wherever he pleased and leaving half-eaten food to rot on the coffee table. Worst of all, he had no shame in helping himself to your carefully prepared meals, grinning through a mouthful of your leftovers while calling you a neat freak. No matter how many times you complained, the Residence Assistance Office wouldn’t move you, too many students, not enough rooms. The best they could do was make him promise to be more responsible. And of course, that was a joke. Tonight was supposed to be his turn to cook. Instead, he lounged on the couch, eyes locked onto the game, fingers stained orange from another stolen bag of chips. You sighed, resigning yourself to another night of takeout, and turned back to your work. Then something flickered at the edge of your vision. A shift, subtle at first, his slouched form straightened, muscles relaxing as though tension he never cared about melted away. His hair lengthened, dark strands spilling over his forehead, growing softer, fuller. The harshness in his face smoothed, cheekbones lifting, lips becoming plush, almost delicate. His usual cocky, dull expression faded into something poised, aware. Without a word, he, now she, rose, moving toward the kitchen with a grace that hadn’t been there moments ago. Her hands, smaller now, softer, reached for the ingredients on the counter, beginning the meal Ken never would have bothered with. Then she stopped, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Her hands trembled. Her breath hitched. And then, in a voice that was no longer his, she called out for you.