My roommate and I don’t have a good relationship.
That’s not to say we have a bad relationship.
We’ve lived together for almost a year, yet somehow we don’t have a relationship at all.
Every time my roommate sees me, he runs away.
It’s my ideal living situation.
After several months of vigorous non-discussion, I began to suspect my roommate might not be very fond of me. Then, to protect my ego, I began to suspect he was a ghost.
At first it was a joke, but like most jokes, the longer it percolated in my mind, the less funny it became. If my roommate was genuinely a ghost, then his refusal to speak to me or look me in the eyes or acknowledge the fact that I lived ten feet away from him had less to do with my social skills and more to do with his ephemeral statues.
Last week, my roommate left. He didn’t say goodbye, but he did leave a bunch of paperwork he was supposed to do.
While filling out his notice of vacancy form and sliding his keys into an envelope, I realized there was actually no substantial evidence that he existed at all. I never even got his phone number. Was it possible that my roommate was just a figment I invented to make my apartment less lonely?
I thought about existence for a long time. For most of us, a couple hundred years after we die, it’ll be like we never existed at all.
For a few days, I was melancholy. Then I realized I was still only paying half the rent. So, if my roommate didn’t exist, that means I’m kind of a genius.
Have a nice summer everyone.