Dead Mall Dorm Room

So, I'm here, at college and it's worse than I ever imagined. I mean way worse. But I promised Eve that I'd stick it out so here I am dealing with a shitstorm of emotions the only way I ever knew how by writing through it instead of spiraling any further in the stairwell, so here goes:

Greetings from day one at NCSU, home of existential dread and laundry mountains that might actually be alive.

It all started with me clinging to the door handle of Eve’s ancient Volkswagen, knuckles white, as we hydroplaned down I-91 through sleet and slush and at least three distinct forms of panic. Eve was completely unfazed, joint between her fingers, window cracked, flicking ash and grinning like the world could not touch her. She told me to relax because she was made for this, and she offered me the roach. I turned it down since the last thing I need is chemically enhanced paranoia on top of regular, homegrown anxiety. She just shrugged, rolled up the window, and started humming to the radio while we fishtailed through a puddle that could have doubled as a minor lake.

By the time the “Welcome to Connecticut” sign blurred past, I was already doing the mental math on how much it would cost to turn around and go home. Eve, meanwhile, launched into her usual pep talk and asked what I was so freaked out about this time, as if the list is ever short. I told her about the headaches and the weird breathing thing and the way I have not slept since June. She did not even blink. Sometimes you just have to let go, she said, like the solution is as simple as breathing out. That is Eve. She has never met a problem she could not outlast or a storm she could not drive straight through. I envy that in ways I will never admit to her face.

When I tried to distract myself with my phone, all I got was another one of those glowing MIND chip ads. They promise perfect skin and perfect bodies and impossible smiles, and the whole world dares me to believe I would be better if I just gave in and upgraded. For a second, I wanted it. Not the perfection, exactly, just the relief. I want to not be broken or scared or stuck as the “before” photo in every room I walk into. Eve saw the ad and nearly bit my head off. She told me I was not broken, told me I see the world differently, and that was the point, even if it does not always feel like it.

She kept talking, this time about the Enhanced and their weird obsession with everything retro and gross from our parents’ generation. Bubblegum pop and boy bands and acid-wash everything. She said I got this scholarship because real and messy art is suddenly rare since the Enhanced cannot make it and only want to collect it. That made me feel less like a writer and more like an endangered species being catalogued for a bio museum.

Eventually, she brought up my roommate. “Gabe Kowalski,” she said, and she said he was larger than life. I should have pressed for details, but I was too busy cataloguing my regrets.

When we finally got to campus it was exactly what I had expected from a school that's still struggling to shake its last life. The dorms are built over the corpse of an old shopping mall and they never let you forget it. Every hallway smells like cleaning fluid and defeat, and every door is just a little too heavy. The lobby could pass for a JC Penney with a fresh coat of paint. Eve and I dragged my stuff in while she was making jokes and I was counting how many heartbeats I had left before I imploded. The elevator clanked all the way up, which seemed fitting since it felt like my insides were rattling too.

Walking into my assigned room felt like stepping onto the set of some low-budget disaster flick. My half of the room was empty except for my sad little stack of boxes and duffels, the kind of blank space you’d expect from someone who only owns three pairs of shoes and a questionable amount of socks. But the other side? It was like a tornado had stopped by for a quick snack and left everything behind. Neon shorts dangled from desk chairs and lamps, soda cans rattled beneath my sneakers with every step, and the mountain of laundry in the corner looked ready to host a search and rescue operation. The air even smelled faintly of barbecue chips and old gym class. If I ignored all that, there was a window facing a stand of trees iced over from the storm, and just beyond it the parking lot was throwing back the glow from every streetlight on campus. The mountain behind all of it looked almost peaceful if you squinted, like the world might still make sense somewhere out there, even if this room never would.

Eve hugged me, promised I would survive, and told me to text her when I cracked up. Then she was gone and the air got ten times heavier. I unpacked in slow motion, trying not to stare at the laundry mountain, trying not to think about what larger than life might really mean.

I barely had time to process the silence before Gabe Kowalski appeared—just as Eve warned, maybe even bigger in presence than she let on. One minute I was staring at a laundry mountain, the next I was caught in a bear hug worthy of Chris Farley. Gabe barely let me say hello before he started in with jokes and wild energy, grinning like he expected a laugh track, and, for reasons only he understands, he dubbed me "Cheese" right out of the gate. So yeah, day one and I already have a new nickname.

I lasted maybe five minutes before I had to bail. I found myself in the stairwell with my phone in hand, calling Eve. She answered on the first ring and she was already laughing. I told her everything: the pig snorts, the laundry, the Cheese bit, the existential horror of knowing my roommate might actually be a human cartoon. She told me it was just his act, that he is a performing arts major, and that I needed to give it a chance. That's when she said, “Promise me you’ll try.” And I did, because it is easier to lie to your best friend than admit you are ready to run.

So here I am, back at my desk, pretending to settle in while my roommate is flopped on his bed, suddenly way too quiet to trust. My stuff is mostly unpacked. The Enhanced are somewhere out there, perfect and unbothered, and I am just hoping to survive the week without getting saddled with more nicknames or finding myself dragged into another one of Gabe’s routines. I am not sure I belong here and I am pretty sure I will never be one of the people who just walks in and fits. But for tonight, I am still here and I am still trying.

Tomorrow I will get up and do it again, or at least I will write about it. For now, thanks for listening to the mess.

—Nathan