Verse 3

The dorm room was… small.

Not tiny exactly, but just enough to make you rethink owning more than two pairs of shoes. Two beds. Two desks. A wardrobe that looked like it was stolen from a prison cell. A mini sink. No TV. No fridge. One sad ceiling fan that spun like it was on its last breath.

Home sweet home, I guess.

I stepped inside and dropped my backpack with a thud, the sound echoing in the empty room like a sigh. The air was stale, untouched. No sign of a roommate yet. Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d never show up. Maybe I could pretend this whole thing was a solo movie, no co-stars, just me.

I opened the closet. Found a half-used air freshener labeled Ocean Breeze and nearly laughed out loud.

As I sprayed it around, the door creaked open behind me.

I turned, half-expecting some awkward RA or maybe a ghost. Instead, I got six feet of dreadlocks, sunglasses indoors, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“Yo,” the guy said, stepping in like he owned the room. “You must be Davis.”

I blinked. “Yeah. You are…?”

“Malik,” he said, tossing his bag onto the other bed without hesitation. “But my friends call me Mal. Or King, depending on the vibe.”

The way he said it made me think he was only half-joking.

He looked around once, then nodded. 

“Not bad. At least we’re not sharing with four other dudes like those poor engineering kids.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded.

He sat on the bed and bounced twice like he was testing it for quality. 

“Alright, here’s the deal, man. I don’t snore. I don’t touch other people’s food. I play music sometimes, but never too loud. And I’ll mind my business if you mind yours.”

“Sounds fair.”

This guy might actually be alright. I’d been bracing for some talkative dude who wanted to know my life story. Thank God he seemed chill.

He leaned back on one elbow. “Also, I party. Just putting that out there.”

Okay. Not ideal. But as long as he does his whatever away from me, everything’s gonna be alright.

“Cool,” I said, though my idea of a party was reading three chapters without falling asleep.

Malik studied me for a beat, then grinned. “You look like you write poetry.”

“What?”

“Just a vibe,” he said, already pulling out a speaker from his bag. “Let me guess. You’re one of those introverted types who thinks too much, reads people like books, and probably listens to sad music on purpose.”

I stared at him.

This guy might be a mind reader. Careful now, Davis. Quick, think of something deep—he’s scanning your brainwaves

What am I thinking now? What did I say huh? Be gone from my mind!

I stared at him again.

Nothing.

Hmm, false alarm. Guess he can’t read minds.

“Got it in one, huh?” he said smugly.

God, what was with people today reading me like a children's book?

“I guess that’s not too far off.”

He clapped once. “Knew it. Bro, we’re gonna get along just fine. You ever been to the open mic nights?”

This is the second time I have been invited to this thing. If I didn’t know myself, I would have said I was getting popular.

“No,” I answered.

“You should come bro.”

Without another word, he stood, stretched, and pulled open the curtain. Outside, the city buzzed. This way chaotic than my home town but I liked it. Though our room was small, the view was solid. Cars, bikes, people moving like they knew where they were going. Meanwhile, I was just here—an awkward poetry kid with a party-animal roommate and two open mic invites I never asked for. Great start to university life, huh?