My roommate, Paige and I typically get along, and the first few weeks of school went swimmingly; both of us kept our things neat and organized, our lives divided by the invisible line in the center of the room.
Gradually, although almost too slowly for me to notice, Paige’s side of the room slowly began to lose its cleanliness: her clothes, book and garbage creeping ever-closer to that dividing line.
I did my best to keep our lives separated and thought the example of my tidy half would help Paige return to the organized, clean girl she’d been when we met.
Apparently, my attempts were in vain because about two months into the year, she’d stopped making her bed. All of my actions became about counteracting hers.
She felt it was acceptable to spill crumbs all over the floor. I started vacuuming twice a week.
Her crumpled papers and discarded pieces of homework began to edge their way onto my desk. I lofted my bed and stuck my desk underneath.
In the bathroom, she’d started to do her makeup while leaning over the counter so severely that her matte-powdered face hovered directly over my toothbrush. I moved my things out of the bathroom.
This pattern went on, our room subtly falling into and out of various states of disarray. I tried everything, from mentioning that her shoes were blocking the door to even vacuuming her side of the room occasionally. I mean, isn’t that what roommates did? You help each other out and try to keep your things in order, especially when you leave for the weekend, right? I thought so.
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