The Room Next Door

We tried, in our own way. With care, with interest, with the kind of openness that makes you think something good might come of it. But sometimes, even with the best intentions, things begin to fray before they ever really take shape.

How It Started

It was my student period. New city, new rhythm, new weight of independence. My high school girlfriend and I were trying to make it work. Together. But not quite living together. Not yet. The idea was to keep our lives slightly separate while we figured things out.

In practice, it meant occasional weeknights at her shared apartment. A place I was slowly getting used to. Familiar faces. Familiar couch. Board games, wine, and casual evenings that blurred into sleepovers.

This was one of those nights. Monopoly, or something close enough to pass for it. Laughter, red wine, people slipping in and out of the kitchen. She was doing that as well - leaving the room now and then. Bathroom, I assumed. Nothing unusual.

The Shift

Hours passed. The group was winding down. I got curious. Something felt off in the rhythm of her exits. I walked down the hallway. Her door was ajar. Empty. Bathroom light spilling into the shadows. Her laptop was open on the desk. The chat window still blinking.

I didn’t plan to snoop. I didn’t expect anything. But the screen was right there, practically glowing.

And what I read didn’t just sting. It sliced clean through.

“I can’t believe he’s still here.”
“He’s just annoying everyone.”
“I can’t wait for him to leave.”

She was talking about me. To a friend. While I was in the other room, laughing with her roommates, pouring more wine. Thinking we were good. Maybe even close.

I sat down. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. An apology, maybe. Some attempt at honesty. But I waited.

The Fallout

She returned like she was stepping onto a stage. Door slammed. Her eyes wild, voice rising instantly. “Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone. I’m in pain. Stop hurting me!”

I stood there stunned. I had a few things in her drawers. I just wanted to grab them and go. But even that was too much.

She started tossing my stuff, then pulling it back. “Take everything and leave. No one wants you here!” she screamed. Not cried. Screamed. Like a scene from a psychological thriller. Except I wasn’t watching. I was in it.

Her roommates were still. Silent. I stepped toward the door. Almost out.

She wasn’t finished. She chased me down the hallway. Dropped to the floor. Screaming, grabbing at my leg, crying.

“Leave me!”
“Don’t leave!”
“Just go!”

A neighbor showed up at the top of the stairs. Baseball bat in hand. His expression said it all: I don’t want to be part of this.

Neither did I. I stepped over her. Down the stairs. Out the building. Out of that version of myself. And never went back.

Note to Self 

Sometimes the first betrayal isn’t what they say behind your back. It’s the fact that they couldn’t say it to your face. When someone hides behind silence, you’re not in a relationship. You’re in a setup. And when their pain becomes performance, a show of chaos, of noise, of victimhood, you’re not a partner anymore. You’re an audience. You don’t owe your presence to someone staging your departure. If the energy shifts and your gut knots, trust it. Walk out. Without fanfare. Not every exit needs an encore.