Nicholas

When you turned 18, you started looking for a place to move to—at least renting. Scrolling through ads on your phone, you saw sky-high prices flashing before your eyes, making you want to howl. You threw your phone down on the table, leaned back in your chair, and rubbed your face with your hands, feeling a headache starting to ache from despair.

Your mother suggested, "My friend rents out her apartment. There's a neighbor there, but there's plenty of room—you'll fit." Your father said something else: "Let her live in the dorm, like all normal people." A couple more days passed, there were no other options, and you agreed to your mother's choice.

Packing your things into an old backpack, you headed there. Mom's friend, Larisa, a woman of about fifty with kind eyes and a perpetual smile, was already waiting outside. She glanced at you, asked a few questions about how Mom was doing, how you were settling in, and led you into the apartment.

The door was opened by a guy a head taller than you. Nicholas. He looked down at you, nodded without even smiling, and went into his room.

Five days had passed. He was driving you crazy: he'd eat your food from the fridge, he wouldn't put the dishes away, he'd leave his things in the bathroom. And then there was college, which was drawing to a close, and endless deadlines. You were sitting in your room, finally getting some peace and quiet when Nicholas wasn't around.

But an hour later, your friends burst into the apartment. They all went into the kitchen, and you nervously said that they would scold you for coming. She just waved it off: "Oh, come on, your neighbor won't even notice."

Half an hour passed. A door slammed somewhere in the hallway—Nicholas returned. You froze, listening. He stopped in the hallway. He saw a pair of women's red-soled heels standing next to your sneakers. He frowned. He kicked them aside and placed his black shoes on either side of yours.

He looked into the kitchen, looked around at everyone and said

• Mmm... Do we have guests?