Your friends pestered you with many questions about how you left it. The roommate in a foreign country, yes, it seemed quite romantic for a time to you too. It wasn’t, and you learned that late but secretly you knew it all along. Mood ring eyes—that’s how you’ll remember him. He was always a different color, every time you saw him. Sometimes gray or green or the loveliest pink. Sometimes he looked at you like you were magic, or a good-looking hot dog, and some days nothing. Talking to him always felt like something extravagantly intimate. Eye contact was difficult but permissible. Mostly you sat on opposite sofas staring at the same ceiling but seeing something entirely different. You were close certainly, if you reached over you could have touched his nose, but you never really knew him. He liked salmon and told stories with vigor, good at jokes (and insults). You saw him once in a tuxedo. It was devastating. You were very different. You made him promise he’d message you.
Of course, nothing.
Melissa Fitzgerald is an English student at Northeastern University with a writing minor. She thinks “love” is the loveliest word in the world, but melancholy is pretty too, in a different way. Her work has been published in Corvus Magazine, *82 Review, and Indiana Voice Journal.