The Unwritten Lease

My laptop screen was a graveyard of bad decisions. Each open tab was another potential disaster, another person I might have to share a bathroom with. My cursor hovered over an ad titled, “CHILL VIBES ONLY,” and the picture showed a bong shaped like a wizard sitting on a coffee table made of stacked milk crates. I closed the tab so fast I almost broke the trackpad.

My stomach was a tight knot of acid and anxiety. It had been for the last six days, ever since I’d walked in on my now ex-boyfriend, in my bed, with a woman from his office. He’d had the audacity to look surprised, as if I’d interrupted something important. The breakup was swift. The packing was less so. Now, all my meticulously organized belongings were crammed into a ten-by-ten storage unit, and I was sleeping on my friend Chloe’s couch, which smelled faintly of her cat and regret.

I had two weeks. Two weeks until my biggest client project to date was due, and two weeks until Chloe’s very patient, very large boyfriend came back from his work trip, at which point I would be demoted from couch-surfer to homeless person. The pressure was a physical weight on my chest, making it hard to take a full breath.

I’m a planner. I have spreadsheets for my finances, my grocery lists, my five-year goals. My life is a series of neat, color-coded boxes. The idea of inviting a complete stranger into my life, a variable I couldn’t control or predict, felt like a special kind of hell designed just for me. But the alternative—moving back in with my parents in Ohio—was a circle of hell even deeper.

I clicked on another listing. “Seeking female roommate. Must love God and be clean. No guests after 9 PM. No exceptions.” The attached photo was a blurry shot of a crucifix hanging over a toilet. Nope.

Another one. “2 bros looking for a 3rd bro to complete the bro-niverse.” I didn't even need to read the description. Closed.

My fingers ached from scrolling. My eyes burned from staring at the screen. Every ad was a new glimpse into someone else’s chaos. Dirty kitchens, passive-aggressive notes about dishes in the sink, lists of rules longer than my freelance contracts. One guy’s profile picture was just his torso. Another listed his primary interest as “taxidermy.”

How did people do this? How did they just roll the dice and agree to live with a human they found on the internet? It felt more dangerous than online dating. At least on a bad date, you could just go home. If you picked a bad roommate, you were home. Trapped.

A wave of nausea rolled through me. I pushed the laptop away and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to force back the panic. This wasn’t like me. I was the one who solved problems, who made lists and executed them flawlessly. But there was no list for this. There was only a gaping hole where my life used to be and a ticking clock that was getting louder with every passing second.

My phone buzzed on the cushion next to me. A text from Chloe. Find anything yet? Don’t worry, you’ll find something great!

Her optimism was almost insulting. I typed back a simple, Still looking, because telling her that I was spiraling into a pit of despair felt a little too dramatic for a Tuesday afternoon.

I pulled the laptop back onto my lap, my resolve crumbling. I was running out of time, money, and options. The perfectly curated life I had built for myself was gone, and this was the messy, terrifying reality. I took a shaky breath, my finger hovering over the refresh button. At this point, I’d take anything that didn’t involve wizards, taxidermy, or a bathroom crucifix. Anything.

I hit refresh, the little spinning wheel a perfect icon for my current state of life. And then, a new listing appeared at the top of the page, posted only three minutes ago.

The title was simple: “2BR Apt for Rent in Logan Square.”

No screaming caps. No weird emojis. Just a statement of fact. My finger, acting of its own accord, clicked on it.

The first picture was of a living room. It was big, with hardwood floors and a huge window that let in a ton of natural light. It was also almost completely empty, save for a worn-looking leather armchair, a stack of vinyl records on the floor, and a single, lonely-looking plant in the corner that seemed to be thriving against all odds. The other photos showed a decent-sized, clean kitchen with stainless steel appliances, a bathroom that didn’t look like a science experiment, and the available bedroom. It was a blank box, just like the living room, but it had the same big window and a respectably sized closet.

The location was five blocks from my favorite coffee shop. The rent… I read the number twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from stress. It was more than fair. It was perfect.

My heart started beating a little faster. This was it. This had to be it. I scrolled down to the description, ready for the inevitable dealbreaker.

The post was written by someone named Rhys.

Hey, it read. Looking for a roommate to share this place. I work nights as a bartender and play music. I’m clean in the common areas and I pay my bills on time. Not looking for a party animal, but also not a ghost. That’s about it. If you’re interested, shoot me a message.

That was it. The entire description.

No mention of a cleaning schedule. No guest policy. No clarification on what “plays music” meant—was he in a death metal band that practiced in the living room at 4 AM? What did “not a ghost” even mean? The lack of information was a blaring, five-alarm fire for my inner control freak. My brain immediately started generating a list of follow-up questions, a list that was already thirty items long.

I clicked on his profile. It was just as sparse. There was only one picture. It wasn't a selfie taken from a low angle in a dirty bathroom mirror. It was a candid shot of him sitting on a barstool, holding a guitar. He was laughing at someone off-camera, his head tilted back just enough to see the strong line of his throat. He had dark, messy hair that fell over his forehead and a smile that was… disarming. It was a genuine, easy smile that made something in my chest do a little flip.

I hated it. I hated that smile. It was the kind of smile that could convince you to do something stupid, like agree to live with a complete stranger based on a seventy-word ad and a single photograph.

This was a bad idea. A man with a profile this vague was a walking red flag. He was probably a slob who left takeout containers to rot in the sink and had a revolving door of one-night stands. He was the chaos I was desperately trying to avoid.

But then I thought of the wizard bong. I thought of the crucifix toilet. I thought of the “bro-niverse.”

Rhys’s apartment was clean. The rent was perfect. The location was a dream. And his smile, as much as it annoyed me, didn't belong to a serial killer. Probably.

I was weighing potential chaos against guaranteed misery. And maybe, just maybe, potential chaos was the lesser of two evils.

My fingers flew across the keyboard before I could talk myself out of it. I had to know more. I had to try.

Subject: Inquiry Regarding 2BR Apartment in Logan Square

Hi Rhys,

My name is Heiylo. I saw your ad and am very interested in the available room. The apartment looks great, and the location is ideal for me.

I work from home as a freelance graphic designer, so I’m generally quiet and keep to myself during the day. I’m very organized and respectful of shared spaces. I was hoping you could answer a few quick questions:

1. What is your general policy on overnight guests?
2. How do you typically handle the division of cleaning responsibilities?
3. You mentioned you play music—could you elaborate on what that entails in terms of noise levels and frequency?

Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Best,
Heiylo

It was professional. It was direct. It probably made me sound like the most boring person on the planet, but I didn't care. I needed answers.

I read it over one more time, my cursor hovering over the “send” button. This was a gamble. A huge, terrifying gamble. I took a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and clicked.

His reply came less than an hour later.

Heylo,

Cool name. Answers for you:
1. As long as they don't steal my guitar, I don't care.
2. I clean up my own messes. Expect you to do the same. If it gets bad, we handle it.
3. I play acoustic. I'm not an asshole about it.

Let's grab coffee tomorrow so you can see I'm not a weirdo. How's The Grind at 2 PM?

Rhys

No last

name. No last name, no sign-off. Just Rhys. His brevity was either supreme confidence or a complete lack of social skills. I decided it was probably both.

The walk from the coffee shop to the apartment was only three blocks, but it felt longer. I was hyper-aware of him walking next to me, the strap of his guitar case slung across his chest. He didn’t try to fill the silence with small talk, which I was grateful for. He just moved with an easy, unhurried stride, as if he had all the time in the world. I, on the other hand, felt like my nerves were being stretched thin.

The building was an old brick three-flat, the kind with solid bones and a little bit of wear around the edges. It had character. Rhys fumbled with a set of keys, the metal clinking together, before finding the right one and pushing the heavy wooden door open.

“After you,” he said, holding the door.

The apartment was on the second floor. As soon as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, I understood why the photos didn't do it justice. The living room was flooded with late-afternoon light pouring in from a massive picture window that overlooked the tree-lined street. The hardwood floors were scuffed in places but clean, glowing warmly in the sun.

It was exactly as sparse as the pictures had suggested. The worn leather armchair sat in one corner, looking like it had seen a thousand stories. Next to it, a turntable rested on a simple wooden crate filled with vinyl records. That was it. The rest of the huge room was empty space, full of echoes and potential. My brain immediately went into overdrive. My gray sectional would go against that wall. A low, light-wood coffee table in the center. My collection of art prints, framed in simple black, would be perfect for the large, blank wall opposite the window. The space was a canvas, and I was already painting it.

“It’s a bit empty,” Rhys said, walking past me and dropping his keys on the kitchen counter. “My last roommate took pretty much everything when he moved to Portland. I haven’t gotten around to replacing it.” He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe that led to the kitchen. “Gives you room to bring your stuff in, I guess.”

His casual confidence was a strange thing. He wasn't trying to sell me on the place. He was just presenting it, quirks and all. “The radiator in here,” he said, pointing to an old cast-iron unit under the window, “hisses a little in the winter. Sounds like a snake, but you get used to it.”

He walked me through the rest of the apartment. The kitchen was clean, the stainless steel appliances gleaming under the track lighting. I opened the fridge out of habit. It held a six-pack of beer, a bottle of hot sauce, and a single, lonely lime. I closed it without comment.

“The upstairs neighbor is a cellist,” he mentioned as we stood in the hallway. “Plays Bach on Sunday mornings. It’s actually pretty nice.” He pointed to a spot on the ceiling. “And the water pressure in the shower is insane. In a good way.”

He wasn’t telling me the things a landlord would tell me. He was telling me the things a person who actually lived here would tell me. He was giving me the unvarnished truth, and my practical, skeptical mind didn't know what to do with it. I was prepared for a sales pitch, for him to gloss over the negatives. But his honesty was disarming, slowly chipping away at the wall of questions I had built up.

Finally, he pushed open the door to the available bedroom. It was the same size as the one in my old apartment, but the window was even bigger than the one in the living room. It was completely empty, a blank box of potential. I walked to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. I could see my desk under the window, my bed against the far wall, my bookshelf fitting perfectly into a little nook by the closet. I could see myself living here. I could see myself being… okay.

I walked over to the window and looked down at the street. People were walking their dogs, carrying groceries. It was a normal, quiet street. It felt safe. It felt like a place I could come home to.

“So, what do you think?”

His voice was quiet, coming from the doorway. I turned around. He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. The light from the window caught in his dark hair, and for a second, I forgot all about my spreadsheets and my five-year plans. I forgot about the empty fridge and the hissing radiator and the fact that I knew next to nothing about this man.

All I knew was that standing in this empty room, with this stranger who felt less strange by the minute, I felt the first real flicker of hope I’d felt in weeks. The chaos he represented suddenly seemed less like a threat and more like… a possibility. An adventure. And God, I was so tired of playing it safe.

I was weighing the devil I didn't know against the devils I’d already seen online. There was the guy whose profile picture featured him standing next to a life-sized cardboard cutout of a video game character, and the woman who specified in her ad that any potential roommate must be “open to exploring polyamorous energy healing.” And then there was Rhys. A musician with a nearly empty fridge and a smile that made my stomach clench.

He was a risk. A massive, unquantifiable risk to my carefully constructed peace. But the apartment felt right. And standing there, looking at him, I realized the alternative wasn't just another bad roommate. The alternative was staying in a situation that was slowly killing my spirit, or starting this entire soul-crushing search all over again.

Potential chaos with Rhys was better than the guaranteed misery of my other options.

“I’ll take it,” I said. The words left my mouth before I could pull them back, sounding more confident than I felt.

A slow smile spread across Rhys’s face. It wasn’t the charming, easy one from his photo. This one was different. It was genuine, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle at the corners. It was a smile of relief. “Yeah?”

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Cool,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “That’s… really cool.” He seemed to search for what to do next. “I have the lease paperwork on the counter, if you want to look it over now.”

We walked back into the kitchen. He pulled two copies of a standard lease agreement and a pen from a drawer. The stark emptiness of the apartment meant there was nowhere to sit, no table to lean on. We ended up standing on opposite sides of the kitchen island, the papers spread between us like a treaty being negotiated.

I read through every line, my brain switching back to its default analytical mode. I noted the clauses about utilities, the rules about alterations to the property, the length of the term. It was all standard. Normal. While I read, he leaned against the counter, watching me, not saying a word. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy. It was filled with the weight of the decision I was making.

Finally, I reached the last page. I picked up the pen. My name, Heiylo, looked foreign and small next to the bold, slightly messy scrawl of his: Rhys Larsen. So he did have a last name.

I signed my name on the line, my hand steady. I slid the papers back across the counter to him. He signed his copy, then looked up at me.

“Welcome home, Heiylo,” he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the entire empty apartment.

“Thanks.”

He extended his hand across the counter. “Roommate.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact. I reached out and took his hand.

The moment our skin touched, a jolt went through me. It wasn't a spark of static electricity. It was something deeper, something warm and immediate that shot straight up my arm and settled in my chest. His hand was big, completely enveloping mine. His palm was warm, and I could feel the hard calluses on his fingertips, a map of the hours he’d spent pressing strings against a fretboard.

His grip was firm, solid. He didn’t let go right away. His thumb brushed against the back of my hand, a small, almost imperceptible movement that made my breath catch. I lifted my eyes to his, and he was already looking at me. His gaze was intense, searching. In that one, stretched-out moment, the line between landlord and tenant, between stranger and roommate, completely dissolved. There was just us, standing in a sun-drenched, empty apartment, holding hands over a legally binding document that suddenly felt like the least significant thing we had just done.

He finally released my hand, but I could still feel the phantom pressure of his grip, the warmth lingering on my skin. The air was thick with something new, something I couldn't name. We were no longer two strangers who had met in a coffee shop. We were officially intertwined, our futures now linked by a shared address and a surprisingly charged handshake. Our mismatched lives were about to collide, and for the first time, I wasn’t entirely afraid of the mess we might make.