Chapter 2

While the police processed the paperwork, my mind replayed the last few weeks, searching for the warning signs I had so clearly missed. It was a painful exercise, like watching a movie where you know the terrible ending.

When we first moved in, Sarah was the perfect roommate. She seemed so kind, so genuinely helpful.

"Oh, you' re from out of state? That must be tough," she' d said, offering me one of her granola bars as I struggled with a heavy box. "Don' t worry, I' ll show you all the best spots on campus."

We fell into an easy rhythm. We' d complain about the same professors, share notes, and order late-night pizza. It felt like a real friendship was starting to form, a comfortable and supportive partnership. I felt lucky.

But then, the little things started. They were so small at first, I barely noticed them. Her comments were always disguised as concern.

"Are you really going to eat that?" she' d ask, eyeing my takeout burger with disapproval. "That' s so many calories. You should have a salad, it' s better for you."

At first, I' d laugh it off. But it kept happening.

"Another new top, Chloe? You just went shopping last weekend. You should be more focused on your studies."

Her seemingly helpful gestures began to feel like transactions. One afternoon, I came back to find she had done my laundry.

"You looked so stressed with your midterm, so I just took care of it for you," she said with a bright smile.

I was touched. "Wow, Sarah, you didn' t have to do that. Thank you."

"Of course," she said, her smile never wavering. "By the way, I' m a little short on cash for groceries this week. Could you lend me fifty dollars? I' ll pay you back on Friday."

The request, coming right after the favor, made me feel cornered. I gave her the money, but a small knot of discomfort formed in my stomach.

Soon, she appointed herself my unsolicited financial advisor. She' d see a shopping bag and sigh dramatically.

"You know, my brother puts half of every paycheck into his savings," she told me one evening. "He says you have to plan for the future. You really shouldn' t waste so much money on things you don' t need."

I was getting tired of hearing about her saintly, hardworking brother. One day, after she' d lectured me about buying a coffee on campus, I finally snapped. She was wearing a new jacket, one I knew she couldn' t afford on her part-time library job.

I looked at her and said, with a sweetness that was pure acid, "You know what, Sarah? You' re so right. I should be more responsible, just like your brother." I paused, letting my eyes drift to her new clothes. "But wasn' t that the jacket you bought last week, right after you told me you were too broke to buy textbooks and 'borrowed' that hundred dollars from me?"

The color drained from her face. She stammered, trying to come up with an excuse, but the words wouldn' t form. For the first time, I saw her without the mask of sweet concern. She just looked flustered and angry, caught in her own hypocrisy. She mumbled something about her mom sending her money and quickly left the room.

The tension after that was thick enough to choke on. The friendly chats stopped. We coexisted in near silence, a silence that was broken one afternoon by her most audacious demand yet.

"Since you don' t have a job and your parents pay for everything, you have a lot more free time than I do," she declared, standing in the middle of the room as if making a royal proclamation. "It' s only fair that you do all the cleaning from now on. The bathroom, the floors, taking out the trash. All of it."

I stared at her, dumbfounded by the sheer nerve.

"Absolutely not, Sarah," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "We are roommates. We split the chores fifty-fifty. That was the agreement, and that' s how it' s going to be."

A flash of rage crossed her face. She didn' t argue. She just turned around and slammed a textbook down on her desk with so much force that the lamp rattled. The sound was a loud, ugly crack in the suffocating silence.

It was in that moment, even before she stole my card, that I knew I had to get out. I couldn' t live with her jealousy and her resentment poisoning the air I breathed. The theft and her arrest were just the final, violent confirmation of a decision I had already made. This wasn' t a home, it was a cage, and I had to escape.