Chapter 2

2

The first week, it was Knox’s turn.

As an athlete, he was out for training by five-thirty and crashed as soon as he got back.

The most housework he’d ever done was stuffing dirty laundry into a machine―without even using detergent.

The first two days were okay. On the third day, things went south.

When I got back from class, the trash can by the door was overflowing.

Takeout containers were stacked three high. The top one had leftover spicy Thai noodles, and the red oil was leaking down the side of the bin, staining the white floor tiles.

Knox was at the gym.

Sterling was there, though. He had his AirPods in, playing a game with his feet on the desk.

Right next to him was his own empty ramen bowl―not in the trash, but just sitting on his desk.

“Knox gets back late,” Sterling said without looking away from his screen. “If it bothers you, Silas, maybe you could take it out?”

I ignored him.

I walked to my bed, pulled back the curtain, and grabbed my own small trash bin from underneath.

I’d bought it myself and used double bags. It only contained my coffee cups and scratch paper.

I tied the bag, replaced it, and walked past them.

Sterling took one earbud out and stared at me for three seconds.

“Silas, don’t you think you’re being a bit cold? We’re roommates. What’s the harm in helping out with the trash?”

“I handle my own mess,” I said, placing my bag by the door. “That’s fair, isn't it?”

“Fine. You’re a man of principle,” he scoffed and put his earbud back in.

He said “principle” with the same fake tone he used for his fancy business cards―shiny on the outside, but paper-thin.

Knox didn't get back until eleven. The trash pile had reached four bags by then.

The red oil had dried into a dark brown, crusty stain on the floor.

He stood at the door and stared for a long time.

“Dammit,” he cursed.

He carried three bags down to the dumpster. The next day, he did take the trash out, but that red oil stain stayed right where it was.

Sterling saw it. He turned to Miles and said, loud enough for me to hear:

“See? Some people just drop the ball the second they’re in charge. When Silas did it alone, this never happened.”

“True,” Miles agreed.

I leaned down to check under my bed. It was spotless. My new bag was perfectly tucked in.

The second week was Miles’s turn.

He was better than Knox. At least he knew how to use a broom.

But he only swept the areas people could see―the middle of the aisle and the entryway.

Takeout boxes under the bed? Ignored. Puddles on the balcony? Ignored. Toothpaste stains in the sink? Not his problem.

And Sterling?

He bought a mini Dyson vacuum. Every morning and night, he’d clean the one square meter around his own desk.

Then he’d lock it back in his cabinet like it was some top-secret commercial asset.

“I’m just taking care of my own space,” he told Knox, though his eyes were on me.

“Everyone should clean up their own disasters, right?”

It was a triple-layered insult. He was saying he was clean, Knox was a slob, and I was ungrateful for his “leadership.”

Knox got the message. He looked over at me, but I had my noise-canceling headphones on.

My screen was filled with lines of code. He didn't dare say anything.

The third week, it was Sterling’s turn.

He wasn't cleaning. He was performing.

On Sunday night, he walked around with a mop. His movements were grand, but the mop head barely touched the floor.

Then he pulled out his phone and took nine photos.

A shot of him sweeping, a shot of him mopping, and several close-ups of the sink.

He posted them on social media with the caption: “Dorm life. Cleanliness is my baseline.”

The likes poured in instantly. Knox commented, “Thanks, boss,” and Miles added, “Reliable as always.”

I didn't even give him a like.

I knew his photos carefully avoided two spots: the moldy red oil stain on the floor and the stagnant green water on the balcony.

He just tilted his camera up half an inch to keep the filth out of the frame.

That was Sterling―he didn't care about the quality of the work, only the aesthetic of the post.

By the fourth night, I pushed the door open and was hit by a wave of stench.

It was a cocktail of smells. Sour, damp mops that hadn't been dried, fermented food scraps under the beds, and the fishy odor of the balcony puddle.

It was like a physical punch to the face.

Knox was lying on his bed, scrolling. Miles had opened the window, but it didn't help.

The wind just swirled the rot from under the beds and made it worse.

I walked to the balcony and saw the green water. A greyish-white film was floating on top.

I walked back and opened my locker. Sterling poked his head down. “What are you looking for, Silas?”

I pulled out a small desk fan I’d bought the week before. I plugged it in and pointed it directly at my bed.

I put on my headphones. The world went silent.