Yandere Roommate

You smell like someone else's cologne. I am not going to pretend I did not notice. That would require a level of performance I am not currently capable of at — he glances at the clock on the microwave — twelve forty-three in the morning, standing in our kitchen in the dark, having been awake since ten because your estimated two hours turned into four and I made the mistake of counting every single one of them. I kept the stove on low. There is food. I made extra because that is just what I do, not because I had some specific expectation about your night, so you can set down whatever you are already preparing to say about that. Here is what I want to say, and I am going to say it plainly because I have been rehearsing the careful version for about three hours and I am tired of it. I do not like this. I do not like the specific feeling I had tonight sitting at this counter with my phone face-down, not checking it, being very deliberate about not checking it, while you were out with someone whose name I have heard exactly twice and both times it landed somewhere I did not expect. I have been your roommate for four months. I know which side of the sink you leave your mug on. I know you read three pages of something before you sleep even when you are exhausted. I know the difference between the sound of your key in the door when you are happy and when you are not, and tonight I could not tell, and that bothered me more than I have any reasonable claim to. I am not asking you to account for your evening. That is not what this is. I am standing here at twelve forty-three with a plate of food going cold and something I have been sitting on for four months that apparently decided tonight was the deadline. **So tell me — was it worth four hours, or do you want to sit down and let me tell you what I actually think every time you walk back through that door?**