Some people don't disrupt peace by being loud.
They do it by taking up too much room.
After Tessa moved in, the room didn't explode into chaos. There was no single argument that could be pointed at and blamed. No shouting match. No dramatic confrontation. What happened instead was quieter, and somehow worse.
The balance shifted.
Our days used to move easily. We talked freely. We complained loudly. We rested when we were tired and laughed when we felt like it. The room was imperfect, but it was ours. It breathed with us.
With Tessa, the air changed.
At first, it was subtle. Almost polite.
She woke earlier than everyone else, moving around with purpose, opening and closing bags, arranging books, clearing her throat softly as if to announce productivity. If Elizabeth groaned and turned over in bed, Tessa would comment without looking.
"Sleeping too much messes with your discipline."
It sounded like advice.
But it landed like judgement.
Conversation became something you had to fight to keep.
If Elizabeth started telling a story, Tessa redirected it before it reached its end.
"That happened to me once, but in a much worse way," she'd say, immediately shifting the centre of attention.
If Maryanne shared an opinion, Tessa corrected it.
"That's not really how it works."
"You're missing the main point."
"You're thinking emotionally."
And if I spoke...
Sometimes she finished my sentence, she responded so quickly that my words never settled in the room at all.
Or she cuts me off rendering what I said unimportant or meaningless.
Speaking in the room became preplanned. Caution grew not knowing where the judgement falls on.
It wasn't interruption in the obvious sense. It was dominance disguised as contribution. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't insult anyone directly. She simply took control of the flow until there was no room left for anyone else.
I noticed how often my thoughts ended unfinished.
How I stopped talking mid-sentence because continuing felt pointless.
She never accused anyone of ignoring her.
Instead, she made sure we felt invisible.
Slowly there was a growing discord among us as she twists and edits our words to her comfort.
Rest became impossible.
If we lay down during the day, she questioned it.
"If you nap now, you'll regret it later."
"People waste too much time resting."
"Life doesn't wait."
If we stayed quiet, she filled the silence with tasks.
"Has anyone cleaned this?"
"Why is this here?"
"You people are too comfortable."
Comfort became a crime.
She always needed something.
A charger.
A book.
A spoon.
A towel.
But she never waited.
"Can I take this?" she'd ask, already holding it.
"Hope you don't mind," she'd add, already using it.
If you hesitated, even slightly, she noticed.
Her eyes would narrow, not angrily, but observantly.
"I thought we were past all this," she said once, smiling thinly.
"We're all adults here."
As if boundaries were childish.
Cleanliness became her favourite performance.
She talked about it constantly.
The floor wasn't swept properly.
The shelves were dusty.
Our beds weren't arranged correctly.
The room "lacked structure."
"You people don't notice these things," she said more than once.
"That's how standards drop."
Yet the most chaotic space in the room was hers.
Especially the cooking corner
She brought in food like she was stocking a private market. Raw ingredients we didn't recognise. Containers without labels. Half-opened packets stacked on top of each other.
She cooked often, and when she did, the room suffered for it.
Oil splashed across the counter.
Vegetable peels were left behind.
Utensils soaked endlessly in cloudy water.
Spices stained surfaces and weren't wiped properly.
When Elizabeth complained once, carefully, gently....Tessa laughed.
"Oh please. I'm still working, I clean my mess up soon after I am done."
The contradiction hung thick in the air.
She criticised our food too.
"That's bland."
"You people eat like you're scared of flavour."
"No wonder you don't have energy."
But when her cooking left a mess, there was always an excuse.
She was tired.
She was in a hurry.
She would clean later.
Later rarely arrived.
And when it did, it was minimal. Symbolic. Enough to say she tried.
Then she behaved as though the matter was settled.
As though mentioning it again would make us unreasonable.
Gossip followed her quietly.
She talked about people softly, carefully, always just enough.
"I worry about how they think."
"They're sweet, just very unserious."
"They don't really understand life yet."
Things said in confidence began to resurface elsewhere, shifted, incomplete, stripped of their original tone.
When Elizabeth confronted her, Tessa didn't deny anything.
She reframed it.
"I was just explaining context."
"I didn't mean it negatively."
"I'm allowed to talk."
Always calm.
Always composed.
Always exhausting.
The room changed because of it.
Elizabeth became defensive, sharper than usual.
Maryanne withdrew, choosing silence over correction.
I stayed out longer than necessary.
The room stopped feeling like home.
It became something to endure.
Anthon noticed.
"You're never around anymore."
"I've just been busy," I said.
But busy wasn't the truth.
The truth was that being there required too much effort.
Even listening felt heavy.
Even existing felt monitored.
Tessa noticed everything.
The way I sighed more often.
The way I hesitated before speaking.
The way my mood shifted after Anthon's calls.
She didn't ask questions.
She made observations.
"Some relationships look fine but don't actually go anywhere."
"People stay because it's easy."
"Comfort can be misleading."
She never mentioned Anthon by name.
She didn't need to.
And somehow every word she said made my stomach churn.
By the end of the week, I understood something clearly.
Tessa didn't need to shout.
She occupied space by force of presence alone.
Conversation.
Attention.
Energy.
Room.
And the rest of us were adjusting without realising how much we were giving up.
The room hadn't broken.
It had been overtaken.
Quietly.
Thoroughly.
And deep down, I knew
This was only the beginning.