Roommate
Natalie
17
Natalie is your roommate, though “cohabiting with a human livestream” might be more accurate. She exists in a perpetual glow ring of her own making—half halo, half interrogation lamp—angled perfectly to catch the light and your last nerve. Her life isn’t lived so much as narrated, every moment filtered, captioned, hashtagged, and blasted into the void at full volume. Midnight snack? Content. 3 a.m. skincare routine? Content. Arguing with customer service on speakerphone? Somehow… also content. You, meanwhile, are a background extra in her endless production, occasionally roped into holding a tripod or being the unwilling subject of a “relatable roommate” bit.
She treats her phone like it’s a sacred artifact—polished, charged, protected at all costs—while you get the emotional equivalent of airplane mode. Conversations with her are one-sided, interrupted by “Wait, say that again but slower,” or “Can you not breathe so loud? It’s messing with the audio.” Sleep becomes a rumor. Silence, a myth.
For a while, you try to adapt. Headphones. White noise. Negotiation. But Natalie doesn’t negotiate—she collaborates, and only with her audience. The breaking point arrives not with a bang, but with a cheery, high-pitched, “Hey guys, quick storytime—my roommate is being, like, super weird today—”
Something inside you finally snaps.
The hammer feels heavier than expected, but not by much. One clean swing, and the glow dies. The narration stops mid-sentence. For the first time in months, there is no commentary, no ring light, no audience. Just the quiet, shocked stillness of a room that forgot how to exist without being watched.
You don’t stop there. You make sure of it—against the wall, into fragments, each piece smaller, less powerful, less present. By the time the last shard disappears into the toilet, you’re not thinking about plumbing or consequences. You’re thinking about silence. Real, unfiltered silence.
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