Some changes don't announce themselves.
They arrive quietly, then refuse to leave.
After Tessa moved in, things didn't fall apart immediately.
There was no shouting.
No argument.
No moment where we looked at one another and said, something is wrong.
But something was.
Our room had always been quiet in a way that felt earned. Not silent, just balanced. Everyone knew when to speak and when to rest. We moved around one another naturally, without explanation. Laughter came easily. Silence felt safe.
That balance didn't survive her.
At first, it was small.
She woke earlier than the rest of us, which wouldn't have mattered if she didn't make it obvious.
Chairs scraped softly but persistently. Books were rearranged. The light flicked on even when the sun was already creeping through the curtains. She hummed sometimes low, repetitive, impossible to ignore.
When Elizabeth groaned and pulled her blanket over her head, Tessa would pause, glance over, then continue anyway.
"It's already morning," she'd say lightly, as though that settled everything.
She had a way of asking for things that wasn't really asking.
"Can I use this?" she'd say, already reaching.
"Do you mind if I take—" her hand already closing around it.
Sometimes the request came so softly, so casually, that by the time your brain caught up, the thing was already gone.
When Maryanne finally said, "I wasn't done with that," Tessa blinked, surprised.
"Oh. You should've said so."
As if she'd waited.
As if there had been space to speak.
Rest became difficult.
If Elizabeth lay down in the afternoon, Tessa would hover.
"You've been sleeping a lot."
If I sat quietly, staring at nothing, she'd frown slightly.
"Are you studying today?"
If Maryanne put on earphones, Tessa would tap her shoulder.
"Do you mind if I ask you something quick?"
Quick was never quick.
There was always something, notes to compare, habits to correct, suggestions disguised as help.
She spoke often about cleanliness.
About standards.
About discipline.
"Living like this isn't efficient," she said one afternoon, standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, surveying us like a project.
Our beds were made.
The floor was clean.
But it wasn't her kind of clean.
She wiped surfaces multiple times a day, sighing loudly if she found dust that didn't meet her approval. She rearranged items without asking, then defended it with, "It makes more sense this way."
When Elizabeth joked about it, Tessa didn't laugh.
"This isn't about jokes," she said. "It's about order."
Gradually, the room became tense.
Not openly.
Just… tight.
Conversations turned into whispers. Laughter died quickly.
Complaints were swallowed halfway. We began waiting for her to leave before relaxing fully, before stretching, before speaking freely.
She noticed.
And instead of backing off, she leaned in.
She corrected our habits openly. Commented on our routines. Compared us
subtly, often favourably toward herself.
"In my former hostel, we didn't behave like this."
"I'm just saying, you'll appreciate structure when you're older."
"Not everyone was raised with discipline, I understand."
She said these things calmly.
Reasonably.
As though she was helping.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Outside the room, my life continued.
Lo
Anthon was still there. Still steady. Still consistent.
He noticed the change in me before I named it.
"You seem tired lately," he said once, studying my face.
"I'm fine," I replied.
And I was - technically.
But the room no longer felt like rest.
It felt like performance.
Even when she wasn't there, her presence lingered. We moved differently. Quieter. More guarded.
The harmony we'd built over time felt disturbed, stretched thin by someone who insisted she was improving it.
And the irony...
For all her obsession with perfection, Tessa wasn't perfect.
She criticised mess but left her own clutter everywhere.
She demanded structure but thrived on chaos she created herself.
She corrected others constantly yet bristled when corrected in return.
Once, when Maryanne finally snapped and said, "You don't have to control everything," Tessa went quiet.
Too quiet.
She didn't argue.
She didn't apologise.
She withdrew.
And the silence she left behind was heavier than her words.
After that, she began framing herself as misunderstood.
"I'm just trying to help."
"I don't know why people take offence."
"I guess I expect too much."
The room shifted again.
Guilt replaced frustration.
We found ourselves accommodating her moods now, tiptoeing around her sensitivities while ours went unattended.
That was when I realised,
This wasn't about space.
It was about dominance.
About control disguised as care.
About perfection used as a weapon.
And slowly, without consent, she had made herself central.
The gossip began soon after.
She talked.
Quietly.
Selectively.
Things we said in confidence somehow resurfaced elsewhere, twisted slightly, softened just enough to deny intention.
"I didn't mean it like that."
"I was just concerned."
"I thought people should know."
Trust eroded.
The room that once felt safe now felt watched.
Measured.
Managed.
At night, when I lay awake listening to the faint sounds of breathing around me, my chest tightened - not from fear, but from exhaustion.
The harmony we had wasn't gone.
It was being overwritten.
And the worst part?
No one could point to a single moment and say, this is where it broke.
It just did.
Quietly.
Persistently.
Like something slowly tightening around your ribs.
And I knew then,
Whatever Tessa had brought with her into that room,
it wasn't peace.
And it wasn't temporary.