Chapter 4: Rules, Routines, and Restless Nights

The apartment felt even more crowded. New faces, new schedules, more noise. The cycle just kept repeating.

That night, just as I was about to head out, I ran into Rachel.

I was pulling on my jacket, keys in hand, when she showed up in the doorway, eyes bright but a little anxious.

"Hey, Dylan, you heading out? Can we talk for a sec?"

She leaned against the doorframe, looking uneasy, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt—a nervous habit I’d noticed before.

"What’s up, Rachel?"

I set my bag down, giving her my full attention.

She was quiet for a moment, like she was working up to something big. Then: "Hey, could we... maybe split the rent?"

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. I blinked, wondering if I’d heard her right.

"Wait... what do you mean? Aren’t we already splitting the rent?" I asked, my voice wavering.

I tried to keep it together, but my mind was spinning.

Rachel blushed, pointed at my room, and bit her lip. "I mean, the two of us sharing one room."

She glanced away, cheeks burning. I felt my own face heat up in response.

A guy and a girl sharing one room?

It sounded like something straight out of a sitcom—not real life.

My mind went totally blank. Did I really just hear that?

I replayed her words in my head, trying to make sense of them.

Rachel had been in my room plenty of times, so she knew there was only one bed. That made the whole idea even wilder.

Even putting aside the whole guy-girl thing, sharing a bed with anyone would be weird.

I spread my hands. "We’re a guy and a girl—how would that even work?"

I tried to keep it light, but I was honestly baffled.

"Dylan, do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, her voice casual but her eyes a little nervous.

"Not yet," I said, glancing at her. "But what’s that got to do with it? You’re gorgeous—aren’t you worried about sharing a bed with a guy?"

I tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was a nervous edge to my words.

Rachel just shrugged, her voice calm. "Dylan, I’ve noticed you’re always out at night and sleep during the day—you’re working nights, right?"

She looked at me, steady and sure. I nodded, surprised she’d picked up on my schedule.

I nodded again. I worked for a company with rotating shifts—graveyard, mostly.

The night shift had become my reality. I was basically a ghost in my own place.

As the new guy, I got stuck with the 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. shift. Not glamorous, but it paid the bills—and the night differential didn’t hurt.

The extra pay was the only thing keeping me afloat.

I tried to focus on the upside, even as the lack of sleep wore me down.

My company even covered part of my rent—up to $400 a month. It wasn’t enough for a whole apartment, but it let me snag the master bedroom.

It was the only way I could afford a little privacy in a city this expensive.

"See? You’re here during the day, I’m here at night—we won’t even cross paths. I’ll pay half the rent. You’d save almost $3,000 a year," Rachel said, her teacher-voice in full effect. She laid it out like she was explaining fractions to a stubborn kid, and honestly, I was impressed.

I did the math—$3,000 was nothing to sneeze at.

I crunched the numbers in my head, my mind spinning with possibilities.

I still owed $3,500 in student loans. Saving that much on rent would make a huge dent.

The idea of knocking out my debt a year early was enough to make me seriously consider it.

"But what about weekends or days off? We’d both be in the room. That might get weird—for you," I pointed out, trying to be considerate.

Rachel just giggled. "Dylan, I trust you. I have good judgment. And if something comes up, we’ll figure it out."

She flashed a mischievous smile, and some of the tension melted away. I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

I hesitated, but she seemed dead set on this plan.

Her eyes sparkled with determination. I knew there was no talking her out of it.

Rachel sighed. "I just can’t take fighting for the bathroom every day. It’s driving me nuts. I feel bad always using yours, but if my job wasn’t so close, I’d have moved out by now."

Her frustration was obvious, and I felt a little guilty for ever complaining.

I scratched my head, still on the fence.

I weighed the pros and cons, my mind a jumble of doubts and hopes.

She must’ve sensed my hesitation, because she added, "If we share, I’ll handle cleaning the room and can help with laundry, too. Deal?"

She sweetened the pot, her smile hopeful. I felt my resolve slipping away.

That did it. "You got a lot of stuff? I’ll help you move."

I tried to sound casual. She beamed, all the tension draining from her face.

She grinned with relief. "Just give me the key. I’ll handle everything—just go to work."

She squeezed my hand, her gratitude shining through. For a second, it felt like we were a team.

So Rachel and I started sharing the room—living together, sharing a bed, and even the closet. It was weird, but it worked.

It was an odd setup, but somehow, we made it work. We became survival partners, navigating city life side by side.

One of us was there during the day, the other at night. Our schedules barely overlapped, so we managed to coexist without much trouble.

Sometimes, I’d catch the scent of her perfume on the pillow or find a sticky note she’d left on the dresser—reminders that I wasn’t alone anymore.

I never would’ve dreamed up this kind of arrangement in a million years. It felt like something out of a sitcom.

I’d grown up in a small town where people talked if you so much as shared a soda with someone of the opposite sex. Now I was sharing a bed—sort of—with a beautiful woman.

I thought living with Rachel would be easy, or at least not a big deal.

I figured we’d pass like ships in the night, barely crossing paths.

But as soon as she moved in, I realized I’d been way too optimistic.

Rachel laid down three rules for me, all aimed at my bad habits:

First, no getting into bed without showering.

Second, clothes and socks had to go straight into the laundry basket.

Third, no sitting or lying on the bed in outside clothes—pajamas only.

And finally, unless we told each other in advance, don’t come into the room during the other person’s time.

She posted the rules on the fridge, color-coded and underlined. I groaned, but I had to admit, the place started looking a lot better.

All those rules put me on edge—I felt like I was tiptoeing around my own room.

I missed my old, messy ways. Now I checked everything twice before leaving, terrified of breaking some unwritten code.

Honestly, my quality of life tanked, and I started second-guessing the whole thing.

The first week was rough—awkward run-ins, passive-aggressive notes, you name it. But eventually, I started to get the hang of it.

There were some upsides, though. Rachel kept the room spotless—way better than before. Even the balcony flowers looked happier.

She had a way of making even the dingiest apartment feel homey. Sometimes I’d come home to fresh wildflowers on the nightstand or a new candle burning.

The bedsheets always carried a faint, clean scent of her perfume—fresh and calming.

It was subtle, but I always noticed. Sometimes I’d catch myself looking forward to it after a long shift.

Breathing in Rachel’s scent, I tossed and turned at night, dreaming of her for days in a row.

Her presence lingered, haunting my dreams. I’d wake up with her name on my lips, heart pounding.

In the end, I developed a case of insomnia.

I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I got into this mess—and secretly hoping it would never end.