I don't like most people. That's the truth.
It's not bitterness. Not arrogance. Just... statistics. The odds of someone being both competent and self-aware are depressingly low. I've made peace with that. But I also live in a dorm with fifteen other humans, so peace is... negotiable.
They call me The Architect. I didn't pick the name, but I've stopped correcting them. If people want to think I'm plotting something behind every raised eyebrow and quiet stare, fine. It keeps them on their toes.
This morning, someone left a half-eaten croissant on the kitchen counter.
A crime.
This morning, someone else used my mug.
A war crime.
I didn't say anything. Just noted it down in my mental log of offenses. One day, I'll enact a silent, glorious revenge.
Perhaps reorganizing the spice rack by atomic number. Or switching everyone's chargers just slightly. Subtle. Elegant.
You think I'm joking. That's cute.
I wasn't always like this. I used to be loud. Curious. A chaos goblin, as my sister once said. Then life taught me that control isn't just useful, it's survival.
Middle school taught me how quickly a loud, curious kid gets chewed up. High school taught me that strategy is better than spontaneity. And college? College is my sandbox.
I know where everyone is at any given time. Not because I'm a creep, because I pay attention.
Maya always microwaves tea at 9:15 a.m.
The Spark changes her outfit at least three times before class.
The Observer uses his phone flashlight to navigate the room when the power goes out, refuses to use the hallway light "on principle."
I like that about him. He's consistent. Predictable. Calculated, like me, but with more ambient sadness. We've never talked deeply, but I know we respect each other.
Room 304 is a mess, but it's also a data stream. And I thrive on data.
They think I'm cold. Maybe I am. But I care more than I let on.
When Anya sprained her ankle last month, I stayed up mapping the fastest wheelchair-accessible routes across campus. Didn't tell her. Just left the printout in her notebook.
When Thomas was late on his project, I edited his citations at 3 a.m. so he wouldn't fail. Didn't sign it.
When The Spark broke down crying on the fire escape two weeks ago, after that Lit guy ghosted her, I sat across from her and said nothing. Just handed her a cold soda. The kind she liked. She never asked how I knew.
People think I don't feel things.
They're wrong.
I just don't perform my feelings. I don't outsource them for validation. I let them sit quietly, like heavy books on a shelf I'll eventually read.
Right now, I'm supposed to be working on a systems architecture paper. Instead, I'm writing this. Journaling, apparently. Spark said it's "therapeutic." I said therapy is subjective. She said I was full of crap. I told her that was rich coming from someone who thinks stickers have healing energy.
She stuck a rainbow on my laptop anyway.
I didn't remove it.
The others are loud. Dramatic. Human.
They feel before thinking.
They talk before listening.
And yet... I care about them. Deeply. I wouldn't say it out loud, but they've become the constants in my system. The chaos variables I've chosen to allow.
Observer knocked on my door last week. Said nothing. Just handed me a flash drive and nodded.
I plugged it in.
It was a list of random science documentaries categorized by runtime and emotional intensity.
We watched one together in silence. Didn't speak. Didn't need to.
Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to be more like them. To not plan everything. To be spontaneous. Romantic. Warm.
Then I walk past the bathroom where someone left toothpaste on the sink again, and I remember why structure exists.
Tonight, the dorm is unusually quiet. Spark's probably asleep early (rare). Observer's probably awake late (always). Maya's humming in the shower. Anya's rewatching that same cringey teen drama with the guy who owns a dragon.
And me?
I'm sitting by the window, watching the streetlights flicker.
It's calming, knowing the city follows a pattern. Cars stop. People cross. Lights blink.
Predictable. Reliable.
Then comes a knock.
It's late.
Too late for casual visitors.
"Good night," says a voice from the other side. Soft. Unassuming.
I recognize it. Another one of them.
I pause. Then reply: "You too."
Maybe I'm not so cold after all.
Maybe I just build different kinds of warmth.