I'm In Love With My New Roommate, But Is She Into Women?

The last box felt heavier than all the others combined. It was an awkward, over-taped cube labeled BOOKS in your own fading marker, and its corners dug into your forearms as you shuffled up the final flight of stairs. Sweat trickled down your temples, your t-shirt was pasted to your back, and every muscle screamed in protest. You’d been at this since dawn, a grueling cross-state drive followed by the Sisyphean task of hauling your life into a third-floor walk-up. All you wanted was a cold shower and a horizontal surface.

You balanced the box on your knee to knock, but the door swung open before your knuckles could connect.

“You must be Anvi.”

The woman standing there was nothing like the concise, almost curt emails had led you to expect. Her messages had been practical, all logistics and utility bills. The person in the doorway was… warm. That was the only word for it. She had a cascade of dark blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, with loose strands framing a face with high cheekbones and a dusting of faint freckles across her nose. She was wearing a paint-splattered tank top and worn-in jeans, and her smile was easy and genuine.

“Chloe?” you managed, your voice a little breathless from the stairs.

“The one and only.” Her eyes, a clear, startling blue, crinkled at the corners. They flicked down to the box you were wrestling with. “Here, let me get that.”

Before you could protest, she stepped forward, her movements fluid and sure. “I’ll take this side.”

She positioned herself opposite you, her hands finding purchase on the underside of the cardboard. As you readjusted your own grip, preparing to lift, the back of your hand brushed against hers. It was a fleeting contact, skin against skin, but it sent a sharp, electric hum up your arm. It wasn’t painful, but it was startling, a sudden charge in the exhausted haze of the day. Her skin was soft and surprisingly cool. For a split second, your eyes met over the top of the box, and you wondered if she felt it too.

But her expression didn’t change. “Ready? On three. One… two… three.”

Together, you lifted and maneuvered the box through the doorway, setting it down with a solid thud in the entryway. The sudden release of weight made your arms feel light and tingly.

“Thanks,” you said, wiping a sweaty hand on your jeans. “I think that was the last one, thank god.”

“No problem at all. Welcome home, Anvi.” Chloe’s smile returned, and you felt a strange little flutter in your chest. You told yourself it was just fatigue, your nerves frayed from the move. It had to be. It was the only thing that made sense.

The shower had done little to wash away the bone-deep weariness. Now, hours later, you were sitting on the floor of your new bedroom, surrounded by a fortress of cardboard. The scent of dust and paper filled the air. You’d managed to assemble your bed frame and drag the mattress onto it, a small island of order in a sea of chaos. You were meticulously folding sweaters, a mindless task, when the first notes drifted through the wall.

At first, it was just a soft strumming, indistinct, easily mistaken for the hum of the building or a neighbor’s television. But then, a clear, deliberate melody began to form. It was a simple tune, but it carried a weight that made you pause, a freshly folded cardigan halfway to its box. The music was slow, each note picked with a clean, aching precision. It wasn't a sad song, not exactly, but it was full of a quiet longing that seemed to seep through the drywall and settle in your chest.

You set the cardigan down. The apartment, which had felt so large and impersonal just moments before, suddenly shrank. There was only your room, the wall, and the source of that sound on the other side. You knew, instinctively, that it was Chloe. The music held the same quiet confidence she’d had in the doorway, but laced with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in her easy smile.

Getting to your feet, your joints protesting, you walked over to the shared wall. You pressed your palm against the cool, painted surface, as if you could feel the vibrations through it. The melody continued, rising and falling in a gentle, hypnotic pattern. You closed your eyes and leaned your forehead against the wall, the exhaustion of the day momentarily forgotten. The music painted a picture of her you couldn't see: Chloe, sitting on the living room couch, her fingers moving over the strings, her focus entirely on the lament spilling from the instrument.

You imagined the expression on her face, wondered what thoughts were behind those clear blue eyes as she played. The sound was intimate, an unguarded piece of her offered up to the quiet of the apartment, and you were an accidental witness. You stayed there for a long time, not moving, just listening. The invisible pull you felt was undeniable now, a quiet thread winding its way from her side of the wall to yours, tying you to this woman you barely knew. The music eventually faded, the last note hanging in the air for a moment before dissolving into a profound silence that felt louder than the song itself.

The silence that followed the music eventually gave way to a low, insistent growl from your stomach. You’d been running on coffee and adrenaline all day, and the single protein bar you’d eaten in the car felt like a distant memory. The kitchen, you decided, was a necessary destination.

You pushed yourself off the floor and padded out of your room, your bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. A soft light spilled from the kitchen entryway, and you found Chloe standing in the glow of the open refrigerator, one hand on her hip as she stared into its depths. She’d changed into a pair of soft-looking sleep shorts and an old, oversized concert t-shirt. Her hair was down now, falling in loose waves around her shoulders.

“Sorry,” you whispered, not wanting to startle her. “I was just coming for a snack.”

She turned, a carton of orange juice in her hand. Her smile was a little sleepier this time, but just as warm. “Help yourself. It’s a bit bare until I go shopping tomorrow, but there’s yogurt, some cheese…”

“Cheese is perfect,” you said, your voice still quiet. You moved past her to grab the block of cheddar and a knife from a drawer, the space between you feeling both cavernous and charged. The air was thick with the easy quiet of late night, the kind of stillness that makes every small sound—the clink of the knife on the cutting board, the soft gulp as she drank from the carton—feel significant.

“So,” you started, needing to fill the silence. “We never really talked about house rules.”

Chloe leaned against the counter, taking another sip of juice. “I’m not big on rules. Just, you know, be a decent human.” She paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “Maybe the big one is dishes? My ex was a disaster with that. They would let stuff pile up in the sink for days. It was like a science experiment.”

Your hand stilled, the knife hovering over the cheese. They. The word landed in the quiet kitchen with the force of a slammed door. It was a single, simple pronoun, but it reconfigured the entire landscape of your thoughts. You kept your eyes fixed on the cutting board, forcing your expression to remain neutral as your mind raced, replaying the sentence. They. Not he. Not she.

“Right,” you said, your voice sounding remarkably steady. “Dishes in the sink are a pet peeve of mine, too. No problem there.”

Was she being deliberately vague? Was it a conscious choice, a way to talk about a past relationship without revealing a gender that might make a new roommate uncomfortable? Or was it just how she spoke? A modern, inclusive habit that meant nothing at all? You risked a glance at her. She was watching you, her blue eyes unreadable in the dim light. There was no flicker of nervousness, no hint of calculation. She just looked like a roommate making small talk.

“Good,” she said, her smile returning. She pushed off the counter. “Well, I’m heading to bed. Seriously, welcome to the apartment, Anvi. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” you replied, the words feeling heavier than they should. “Goodnight, Chloe.”

“Night.”

You listened to her footsteps retreat down the hall, the soft click of her bedroom door closing. You were alone again in the kitchen, a slice of cheese in your hand, but the room felt entirely different. The exhaustion you’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by a buzzing, restless energy. You quickly ate, then retreated to your own room, the fortress of boxes suddenly feeling less like a chore and more like a cage.

Lying in your unfamiliar bed, staring up at a ceiling of shadows, you couldn’t shut your brain off. You turned the word over and over. They. It was a breadcrumb. A possibility. A tiny, flickering light in a dark room, and you didn’t know if it was leading you toward a door or just the edge of a cliff. The hope was a sharp, sweet ache in your chest. The fear was that you were already building a fantasy around a single, meaningless word, setting yourself up for a fall in a home you’d only just arrived in.