Morning With Trouble
I crossed my arms, fixing him with a pointed stare. "At least tell me your name," I demanded. He didn't answer—didn't even look at me. Instead, he stood, slid his phone into his pocket, and walked straight to the door. With one sharp pull, it slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the walls. I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "I'm dying to know your name, huh?" I muttered to myself, shaking my head. "Giving me attitude… we'll see who wins this game."
The moment he left, I decided I might as well explore my new "home." The bedroom was plain—two beds, a desk, and a single cupboard already half-claimed by Mr. Grumpy himself. The attached bathroom was small but clean, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner. A narrow door led me into a tiny kitchen with mismatched mugs on the shelf and an old fridge humming in the corner. The living room had one sagging sofa, a low table, and a window that looked out onto the hostel courtyard, where students laughed and chatted like they had no idea I was stuck with the rudest human alive. I peeked into a cramped storeroom barely big enough to stand in, shaking my head. "Figures," I muttered. "Even the storeroom has more personality than him."
I wandered back into the kitchen, running my fingers along the chipped countertop. "At least the kitchen won't ignore me," I murmured under my breath. Opening the fridge revealed exactly three items: a half-empty water bottle, a packet of butter, and something in a container I didn't dare identify. "Wow… gourmet," I whispered sarcastically. Moving into the living room, I flopped onto the sagging sofa, the springs groaning in protest. "Perfect. Even the furniture is tired of life," I mumbled, glancing toward the bedroom door. My mind drifted back to him, and my voice dropped lower. "Seriously, who does he think he is? Mr. Silent Treatment? Ugh… just wait, I'll survive this place without needing him for *anything*."
I shuffled into the kitchen, pulling out some bread and cheese. "Alright, let's see if I can at least make a decent sandwich without disasters," I murmured to myself, carefully spreading the butter. Plate in hand, I plopped onto the sagging sofa and took a big bite. Just then, the door slammed open, and he strode in like he owned the place. "Hey! That's my bread!" he barked, eyes narrowing as they landed on me. My stomach twisted. Seriously? Could he be any more rude?
I froze, sandwich halfway to my mouth. "Y-your bread?" I stammered. He crossed his arms, glaring like I'd committed the worst crime in hostel history. "Yeah. Don't touch my stuff," he said flatly, then turned on his heel and stomped back to his room, slamming the door behind him. I exhaled, shaking my head. "Unbelievable," I muttered, finishing my sandwich in silence. By the time night fell, exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. I crawled into my bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin, and whispered to myself, "Please let tomorrow be slightly less dramatic…"
I lay on my bed, staring at him across the room. He didn't even glance my way—just set his phone on the side table, yawned, and pulled the blanket over himself. Within minutes, he was asleep, breathing steady and calm like nothing had happened. I couldn't help but mumble under my breath, "Unbelievable… how can someone be so rude and still look so… peaceful?" My eyes finally drooped, and I let myself drift into sleep, the soft hum of the hostel around me.