He walked into rooms like they owed him attention.
Not in a demanding way. In a magnetic way, like fun had a scent and he'd just tracked it across the building. You heard him before you saw him. Keys jingling, voice animated, sneakers squeaking against polished tile. The Entertainer never snuck up on anyone.
He wore color like it was a challenge. Patterns that didn't match, accessories that didn't make sense. One time he wore glow-in-the-dark socks with sandals. Mediator asked him why. He just grinned and said, "Fashion is psychological warfare."
Somehow, it worked.
He wasn't loud to be heard. He was loud because silence made him nervous.
He filled gaps with stories. Big ones. Embellished ones. But always funny. Always timed like a pro. If you looked closely, you'd see how he watched people's eyes when he spoke, adjusting his energy like a soundboard to keep the room alive.
He was the dorm's unofficial MC.
Birthday ringleader. Party DJ. Distraction specialist. If Spark was the flame, he was the sparkler spinning around the room, trailing noise and glitter.
He wasn't shallow.
He was terrified of being alone.
Underneath the jokes and neon and volume, there was a boy who once sat in the back seat of a quiet car for too many years. Who learned that making people laugh was safer than making them care. Who memorized stand-up routines because comedians always seemed like they had the upper hand.
He didn't like mirrors.
Unless others were in them, too.
Room 304 loved him.
Even when he misplaced their chargers. Or left open tabs on their laptops. Or accidentally turned Guardian's laundry pink that one time ("It's rose gold now, you're welcome.")
They forgave him.
Because when they were too tired to smile, he made them.
Tonight, the group returned from an exhausting exam.
Everyone looked like ghosts.
He bounced into the kitchen, made popcorn, grabbed a whiteboard, and scrawled in giant letters:
"THERAPY VIA BAD MOVIES – COMMON ROOM – BRING YOUR DEAD SOULS"
Within twenty minutes, they were all piled onto the couches. Blankets. Popcorn. Spark half-asleep on Mediator's shoulder. Observer calculating plot holes out loud.
He played the worst sci-fi film he could find.
It was glorious.
He laughed louder than anyone, not because the movie was funny, but because everyone else had started to laugh too. The sound was oxygen.
Afterwards, while the others drifted to bed one by one, he stayed behind to clean up. Alone, at last.
He stacked bowls. Straightened pillows.
Paused when he saw the whiteboard again.
He erased it.
Then wrote:
"You mattered today."
Not sure for who.
Just in case someone needed to see it.
He clicked off the lights.
Started walking down the hallway.
Someone peeked out of their room.
"Good night," they said.
He turned, struck a dramatic pose, and whispered like a Shakespearean ghost, "Parting is such sweet sorrow."
The other person snorted and shut the door.
He chuckled. Then stood there for a moment, hands in pockets.
He didn't say it out loud, but the words sat heavy in his chest:
Please don't forget me when the room gets quiet.
Then he danced into his room to the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
The last one to sleep.
The first one to be missed when he's gone.