Julian entered their dorm like a man returning from war.
The door creaked open with an eerie slowness, and Julian stepped inside with a blank expression—face pale, eyes unfocused, shoulders slumped beneath the invisible weight of a thousand unspoken tragedies. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Or worse—like he had become one.
Thomas was already there, sitting on his side of the room, hunched over his laptop with his usual air of detached focus. He didn't look up right away, but the moment Julian crossed the threshold, Thomas's eyes lifted—expression unreadable, save for the subtle tightening of his mouth as he took in the sight of his roommate.
Julian looked like he was about to collapse and never get up again.
"You look like you're about to die in a few seconds," Thomas remarked coldly, voice devoid of concern but sharp with quiet amusement.
Julian didn't even glare at him. He just shuffled to his bed like a wind-up toy winding down and collapsed face-first onto the mattress with the grace of a dying Victorian poet.
"You shut up this time," he mumbled into his blanket.
Thomas smirked faintly, not looking away.
"If I die today, just bury me everywhere," Julian groaned, voice muffled, body limp.
Thomas didn't respond. Not with words. Just a slow blink, followed by the faintest twitch of an eyebrow.
Julian turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes staring out into the void. "Come on. Please talk to me a little," he whined, dragging each word like it physically hurt to say them.
"I have a very, very big problem. I think I'm not going to be able to sleep. Or eat. Or go to school. I think I'm going to drop out of this school already, go back to my hometown, and work in a cat café where the cats always bite me. Or I'll just live in the mountains. Alone. With moss. And no Wi-Fi."
He reached up to grab at his own hair, fingers twisting through the strands like a man possessed.
Thomas exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "And?"
Julian froze for a moment. Then slowly lifted his head to squint at him in betrayal. "Oh, please," he said dramatically, sitting up on his bed like a wilted flower reanimated by rage. "Show some emotions too, dude. Pretend to be human."
Thomas adjusted the laptop on his lap. "Then what's your problem?"
Julian swung his legs over the bed and stood, his whole body heavy with despair, like the air itself was pressing him downward. "We have a project," he said gravely. "A fifteen-minute documentary."
Thomas looked at him.
"That's all?"
"Yes!" Julian practically yelled, throwing his arms in the air. "And it's already killing me! I don't even know how to start!"
He staggered forward in zombie-like steps, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in agony as he walked toward Thomas.
When he reached him, he didn't stop—just sort of folded down beside him on the floor like his bones had given out.
Thomas turned to look at him, one brow slightly raised.
"Help me," Julian pleaded, grabbing Thomas's arm and shaking it with the desperation of a man clinging to the last life raft on a sinking ship. His voice cracked, and it sounded like he might actually cry. His hair had fallen forward, sticking to his forehead and cheeks, his fingers still curled around Thomas's sleeve as he shook him with an almost comical intensity. "Please. Please. Please."
Thomas let out a long sigh, then turned fully to face him. He reached for Julian's hand, trying to pull it off his arm. But Julian refused to let go, only shaking him harder, his chant of "please" continuing like a broken record.
Thomas's glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose from the jostling. He paused, pushed them back up with a calmness that contrasted starkly with the chaos beside him, then looked down at Julian again with narrowed eyes.
Without a word, he reached out and brushed the mess of hair out of Julian's face, fingers surprisingly gentle as they swept it back. Julian blinked up at him, startled into stillness.
"Fine," Thomas said quietly. "So stop."
Then, without warning, he placed his palm directly over Julian's face and pushed him back by it with slow, deliberate force.
"Aww!" Julian yelped, falling backward with a soft thump against the floor.
Thomas let his hand drop, exhaling slowly.
There was a pause. Then Thomas added in his usual even tone, "Let's just talk about it on Saturday."
Julian lay on the floor dramatically, arms splayed, staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.
"Fine," he mumbled. "But only because I might still be alive by then."
Thomas didn't answer.
But he stayed where he was.
And Julian, despite everything, felt a little less doomed.
Julian stayed sprawled on the floor like a fallen martyr, limbs splayed out as though he were drawing the outline of his own chalk body. He groaned softly for effect, making sure Thomas heard every ounce of his suffering.
"You know," he muttered theatrically, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, "if I really do die from this… I want you to give a eulogy at my funeral."
Thomas didn't respond.
Julian turned his head slightly, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, "But you better cry. Just one tear. Or I'll haunt you forever."
Still, no answer.
Julian closed his eyes and added, deadpan: "And if you bring that stupid neutral expression to my funeral, I swear I'll rise from the coffin just to slap it off your face."
There was a pause.
And then—finally—a soft huff of breath. Barely audible. But it almost sounded like a laugh.
Almost.
Julian smiled faintly to himself.
Mission complete.