The Roommate Pact: No Strings Attached

Brendon sat in the dark kitchen, a glass of Macallan 12 in his hand. The amber liquid burned his throat, but it was the only thing that made him feel warm.

He heard the creak of a door. Kiera walked into the kitchen, wearing a silk robe over her pajamas. She stopped when she saw him.

"Drinking alone?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

"It's a Hampton tradition," Brendon replied, raising his glass. "Want one?"

Kiera walked to the sink and filled a glass with water. "No thanks. I like to keep my head clear."

"Must be nice," he muttered.

He watched her as she drank. The way her throat moved as she swallowed. The way a single drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin.

"Why Gloria?" she asked suddenly.

Brendon paused, his glass halfway to his lips. "What?"

"Of all the girls at this university. Why her? She's everything you used to hate. She's shallow, she's obsessed with status, and she treats people like accessories."

Brendon leaned back in his chair. "That's exactly why I chose her."

Kiera frowned. "I don't understand."

"She was easy, Kiera. She didn't require any effort. She didn't want my soul. She just wanted my credit card and a guy to look good in her selfies. Being with her was like being on anesthesia. I didn't have to feel anything."

Kiera looked at him, her eyes searching his face. "So you used her."

"We used each other," Brendon said. "But it didn't work. The anesthesia wore off."

Kiera set her glass down. She walked over to the table and sat across from him. "You're a mess, Brendon."

"I know," he said.

"This whole thing... us living together... it's toxic. We're just going to keep hurting each other until there's nothing left."

"Probably," Brendon agreed.

"So let's make a pact," she said. "No more talking about the past. No more 'I'm sorrys.' No more explaining. We just coexist until the semester is over. And then we walk away and never look back."

Brendon looked at her. He saw the wall she'd built around herself, and he knew he was the one who had provided the bricks.

"Okay," he said. "A pact. No past. No feelings."

Kiera stood up. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she stopped herself.

"Goodnight, Brendon."

"Goodnight, Kiera."

As she walked away, Brendon noticed something. She was still wearing the small, silver necklace he'd given her for her eighteenth birthday. It was a tiny treble clef, barely visible against her skin.

She hadn't thrown it away.

And as long as she was wearing it, Brendon knew the pact was already broken.