My roommate Alex seemed chill at first—quiet, paid rent on time.
Then I woke up at 3 a.m. to him standing over my bed, staring.
“How long have you been there?” I asked.
He smiled blankly: “You look peaceful when you sleep. I like that version of you.”
Next morning he acted normal. That night, a note on my desk: “Sweet dreams. Don’t ruin this.”
I moved out the same week. When I went back for my stuff, he was gone—except for one last note:
“You ruined it. We were just getting comfortable.”
Still check behind me when I hear breathing.