He Was Just My Roommate, Until the Power Went Out

The email arrived on a Tuesday, its subject line a sterile, corporate "Notice Regarding Your Tenancy." Your landlord, a faceless management company you'd never spoken to, was selling the building. You had sixty days to vacate. The words were cold, impersonal, but the effect was a sudden, hot spike of panic in your chest. Sixty days. In a city where finding a decent apartment was a competitive sport, sixty days felt like sixty seconds.

The panic curdled into a low-grade, constant dread over the next week. Every news site and local blog seemed to scream about the rent hikes, a city-wide surge that made your current, soon-to-be-nonexistent rent look like a forgotten bargain. The numbers were staggering, turning your search for a one-bedroom into a dark comedy. You spent your nights bathed in the blue glow of your laptop, the city lights outside your window a mocking reminder of the life you were about to be priced out of.

The roommate listings were a parade of horrors. There was the guy whose only photo was a blurry shot of his bicep, his entire profile a list of demands that included "no drama" and "positive vibes only." There were rooms no bigger than your current closet, advertised with cheerful words like "cozy" and "efficient," with price tags that made you want to laugh or cry. You traded emails with a few seemingly normal people, only to have them ghost you or reveal some non-negotiable quirk, like a pet tarantula or a strict vegan-only kitchen policy. Each dead end left you feeling more hollow, the city closing in around you. Hope was a dwindling resource.

Then, after three weeks of soul-crushing searching, you found it. The listing was simple, almost elegant in its brevity. "Room for rent in 2BR downtown apartment." The photos were what stopped your frantic scrolling. Sunlight poured through large windows, illuminating clean hardwood floors and a spacious living room with exposed brick. The available bedroom was modest, but bright and airy, with a view that didn't just look out onto an alleyway. The price was reasonable. Unbelievably so.

You clicked on the poster's profile. The name was just "Alex." No last name. The bio was short: "Young professional, quiet, clean. Looking for the same in a roommate." There was no profile picture, just a generic gray avatar. It was the opposite of the oversharing, red-flag-laden profiles you’d grown accustomed to. It was polite, direct, and completely anonymous. It was, you thought, as you read the ad for the tenth time, far too good to be true. A knot of suspicion tightened in your stomach, but desperation was a stronger force. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed out a reply.

His reply came less than an hour later, just as concise as his ad. "Hi Chris. Thanks for reaching out. The room is still available. Would you be free for a quick video call sometime tomorrow evening? Let me know what works. Alex."

You suggested seven, and he agreed. The next twenty-four hours were a slow crawl of anxiety. You tidied the corner of your bedroom that would be visible on camera, changed your shirt three times, and rehearsed answers to questions he hadn't even asked. You braced yourself for the catch. The apartment would be above a deafeningly loud bar, or he’d turn out to be a crypto-bro who wanted to split the electric bill down to the micro-watt.

When the call connected, your screen flickered for a second before his face came into focus. The generic gray avatar was replaced by a man with kind eyes and a smile that crinkled their corners. His dark hair was a little unruly, as if he’d just run a hand through it, and a light stubble shadowed a strong jaw. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but something more real and infinitely more disarming. He was, you realized with a jolt, genuinely good-looking.

“Hey, Chris. Alex. Nice to meet you, sort of,” he said, his voice warmer than you’d expected. It was a low, pleasant sound that immediately began to unravel the tight knot of your anxiety.

“Hi. You too,” you managed, hoping you sounded more composed than you felt.

“So, I can give you the grand tour, if you want? Apologies in advance if I’m a terrible cameraman.” He grinned, and the easy charm you’d sensed in his emails was amplified tenfold. You nodded, and he flipped the camera. He walked you through the living room, just as bright and clean as in the pictures. An overstuffed gray couch sat against the exposed brick wall, a guitar case leaned in the corner, and a turntable with a small collection of records was nestled on a low shelf.

“This is the main space,” he narrated. “Kitchen’s through here. It’s not huge, but it gets the job done.” He panned over a clean, functional kitchen. “And this would be your room.” He pushed open a door, revealing the sunlit space from the ad. It was empty, a blank canvas, but you could already picture your bed under the window.

He flipped the camera back to his face. “So, that’s the place. Any questions?”

You asked the basics—utilities, building rules, his work schedule. He was a graphic designer who worked from home a few days a week, but his hours were normal. He was quiet, he assured you, but not a total recluse. He liked to cook, but wasn’t a slob about it. He answered every question with an unhurried openness that felt genuine.

“Honestly, it looks perfect,” you said, the words coming out with more relief than you intended.

He smiled again, a slow, genuine expression. “I think we’d get along. The last person who looked at the room wanted to know if they could practice their tuba here, so the bar is, uh, pretty low.”

You laughed, a real, unforced sound. “I can promise you, no tubas.”

“Well, in that case,” he said, his eyes meeting yours through the screen, “I’d be happy to offer you the room, if you want it.”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “Definitely. Yes.”

The relief that washed over you was immense, a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You finalized the details, set a move-in date, and ended the call with another round of friendly goodbyes. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the blank screen where his face had been just moments before. The apartment was real. Alex was real, and seemed entirely normal—better than normal. And yet, as the initial wave of relief subsided, a small, persistent knot of apprehension remained in your stomach. In two weeks, you would be packing up your entire life and moving in with a complete stranger. A handsome, charming stranger. And you weren’t sure which part of that was more unsettling.

The two weeks passed in a blur of cardboard boxes and packing tape. By the time moving day arrived, your life was reduced to a precarious tower of brown squares stacked on the sidewalk. You paid the movers, tipped them generously for navigating the three flights of stairs to your old apartment, and watched their truck pull away, leaving you alone with the last and most awkward of your possessions.

You buzzed the apartment, and his voice, slightly distorted through the speaker, was a welcome sound. “Be right down.”

The heavy front door clicked open a moment later. Alex stood there, and the first thing you noticed was that the video call hadn't done him justice. He was taller than you’d pictured, with a lean strength to his frame that was lost on screen. He wore a simple gray t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and faded jeans. His hair was just as unruly, and the smile he gave you was the same, but seeing it in person sent a strange, warm flutter through your stomach.

“Hey,” he said, stepping out onto the stoop. He glanced at the mountain of boxes and then at the final, hulking piece of furniture: your old oak bookshelf. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about having a lot of books.”

“I might have a problem,” you admitted, wiping a bead of sweat from your temple with the back of your wrist.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, already moving toward the boxes.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I can manage,” you protested, but he was already hoisting two of the heavier boxes with an ease that made your own earlier struggles feel slightly pathetic.

“We’re roommates,” he said over his shoulder, heading for the door. “This is what we do. Don’t make me carry all of this myself.”

You worked in a surprisingly efficient rhythm, hauling your life up one flight of stairs. The easy banter you’d established online returned, punctuated by the thud of boxes on the hardwood floor. Finally, only the bookshelf remained. It stood on the sidewalk, looking heavy and immovable.

“Alright, the final boss,” he said, jogging back down the stairs. “I’ll take the back end, you guide it. Just tell me where to go.”

He positioned himself at the bottom, his hands finding a secure grip. You took the top, the old, familiar wood cool beneath your fingers. It was heavier than you remembered. You moved slowly, shuffling backward up the stairs, your arms straining. Alex was a steady, solid presence behind it, his voice a low murmur of encouragement.

The apartment doorway was the tightest squeeze.

“Okay, we’re going to have to angle it,” he said, his voice closer now. “Lift your end up and pivot toward me.”

You followed his instruction, your body twisting in the narrow space of the landing. The bookshelf tilted, its weight shifting. To correct your grip, you slid your right hand down the side, and for a single, sharp moment, your knuckles brushed against the back of his hand.

It wasn’t a gentle touch. It was a sudden, distinct shock, a jolt of heat that shot up your arm. Your breath caught in your throat. You instinctively pulled your hand back, your fingers tingling. You looked up, and his eyes—darker and more intense than you realized—were fixed on yours. The air grew thick, charged with something other than physical exertion. His jaw was tight, and for a second, the easygoing smile was gone, replaced by an expression of pure, startled awareness.

He broke the gaze first, clearing his throat. “Almost… almost there,” he said, his voice strained.

You both moved in a stiff, self-conscious silence, maneuvering the final few feet into the living room. You set the bookshelf down against the wall with a heavy thud that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.

You stood there, breathing heavily, not looking at him. You could feel the heat in your cheeks.

“Thanks,” you finally managed to say, your voice sounding thin. “I never would have gotten that through the door.”

Alex ran a hand through his hair, his eyes on the bookshelf, on the spot where your hands had met. “No problem,” he said, his voice quiet. He finally looked at you, a shadow of that easy smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Welcome home, Chris.”