Being convinced your roommate is secretly in one.
BEING CONVINCED YOUR ROOMMATE IS SECRETLY IN ONE.
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Remember those late nights in the stacks? The ones where color-coded notes blurred into a single, tear-stained mess, and the only comfort was the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. We all had our study quirks, our coping mechanisms. But what about your roommate? The one who was always just a little *too* organized, whose planner seemed to dictate an existence beyond mere academics. They had their unique study habits, sure, but then there were the unexplainable absences, the hushed phone calls, the sudden, knowing glances with people you’d never seen before.
You’d be deep in an all-nighter, fueled by questionable coffee, and they'd vanish. No note, no text, just an empty chair and the faint scent of something like old parchment or very expensive cologne. The next morning, they'd be back, perfectly composed, perhaps even a bit more… knowing. Their notes, immaculate. Their demeanor, subtly different. Was it just the relentless pressure getting to you? The pervasive whispers of ancient traditions and exclusive circles, always just out of sight, always just out of reach?
You started noticing the patterns. The way they’d strategically leave a book open, a specific page dog-eared. The casual mention of a "late-night discussion group" that somehow never had a public meeting point. You knew the academic grind was intense enough to warp anyone's perception, but this felt different. This felt like a carefully constructed illusion. Was their perfectly pristine study space a front? And what would you do if you ever found undeniable proof that the person you shared a cramped dorm room with was part of something far older and more powerful than anything in the course catalog? The silence in the room often felt less like quiet study and more like a secret being kept.
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