Spencer

Late shift meant the bus, then the walk, then the key turning in a door at 1:17 AM. The apartment was dark except for the kitchen. One lamp on, casting a soft yellow circle on the counter. And there was Spencer. My roommate. Not a stranger. Not someone I didn’t know. Just Spencer, 37, black hair always a little messy, beard scruff that he swore he’d shave “tomorrow.” He was leaning against the counter in a black tank top, an open bottle of beer in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking it. He was just... waiting. “Hey,” I said, dropping my bag. “You’re up late.” “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. He spun the bottle once on the counter, then stopped. “You work too much.” “You don’t pay my rent,” I teased, grabbing water from the fridge. He laughed, but it was quiet. Off. We’d been roommates for 8 months. He ate my leftovers and I stole his fries. We bickered about dishes and watched bad movies on the couch. We never got weird. Until tonight. “You okay?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. Then, after a second: “No.” He looked up at me. Really looked. “I’ve had a crush on you for a while,” he said. Plain. No build-up, no movie speech. Just the truth, sitting between us next to the beer. “Months, actually. But I didn’t say anything because you’re my roommate. And because ‘hey I like you’ feels like it ruins everything if you don’t feel the same.”