There. It’s done. No point in analyzing my decision anymore.
I love living alone, but my bank account balance has compelled me to review my stance on solitude. Having one person around isn’t the worst thing in the world. Especially if they’re introverted.
It’s not going to be like college, frenzied with zero sense of distance.
Surprisingly, I manage some self-control and don’t check responses to the advert over the weekend. I guess I am becoming more of an adult after all.
Filtering texts is easy. I detest small talk and appreciate it when people cling to the point. Formal, no extra punctuation. We examine all necessary details and close the chat without saying bye.
I might have a black cat to thank for this random stroke of golden luck.
On moving day, a couple of boxes arrive. And when nothing changes until evening, I drag them inside and form a pile, angling them against a corner.
When the pattern repeats for a week, I bust our silent pact of no needless communication and rekindle the text thread. I don’t receive an explanation, but something changes. It’s almost like I’m receiving tracking details of the packages, and I lowkey admire how bot-like that sounds.
Minus the nauseating enthusiasm, of course.
Things are so good, I choose to stop questioning it. The rent’s paid, I don’t have to share my coffee machine, and I bring things inside only once a day.
The deliveries are set at no-contact, and there have been no glitches, so far. The room’s filling up gradually, and I’ve been experimenting with structures. It’s like a vintage game, but in 3D. The order is so satisfying, I shudder at the thought of it slipping away. Just enjoy it while it lasts, I often remind myself.
I keep the nature of my roommate a secret. It’s funny how many lines you can conjure that don’t reveal the weird particulars but aren’t a complete lie either.
“They’re so quiet, they might as well be inanimate. I’m in heaven.”
Three months later, the room’s almost full, and that breeds a lingering sense of unease. I don’t want them to spill over common zones, or worse, my space. I draft conversations in my head about how to bring it up, and sound cordial at the same time. I don’t want to wobble the boat, but I need to put up limits.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to be thinking that far ahead. When I’m certain I can’t possibly work another box, my phone lights up with a single line of text.
Moving process complete.Credits and Inspiration:
A mega shoutout to Robert Gowty for making me dream of boxes (and Chloe). His incredibly surreal series about a sentient box is coming to Substack soon (with a fresh start). If you’re on Medium, you can check it out here.
I would have loved a housemate like this a few years ago. Fill the room, rent half covered, go for your sentient 1s and 0s life!
Loved this, it felt so unsettlingly normal!
This is very clever- I know people who would love such a house mate also!
I like a bit of conversation- but 1 way works for me, so I have a dog!