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Ink wasn’t the best roommate.
In fact, some might say that they were the worst.
The kind of bad roommate people warned others about in hushed voices, like an urban legend passed down through dorm hallways. Unnecessarily loud at ungodly hours. Messy in ways that felt personal. Completely allergic to the concept of “inside voices” or “shared spaces.”
Their room looked like a tornado had developed hobbies.
Dirty dishes didn’t simply pile up—they migrated. Cups appeared on desks that weren’t theirs. Forks vanished for days, only to resurface in places forks had no business being. Their side of the room bled into their roommate’s side with alarming confidence, as if Ink believed personal space was a suggestion, not a social rule.
They partied like sleep was optional and courtesy was fictional. When they stumbled back at two in the morning, they didn’t sneak. Instead, they announced themselves—laughing too loudly, knocking into furniture, turning on lights like the other wasn’t already dead asleep.
People complained.
People begged.
People escaped.
Room change requests were approved left and right—except for one.
Error’s.
Denied. Again. And again. And again.
No explanation. No sympathy. Just a curt rejection that felt less like policy and more like a personal joke at his expense.
Error hated Ink.
He hated their noise, their mess, their smug little grin whenever he snapped at them. He hated how Ink never seemed to take anything seriously—especially not him.
When Error studied, Ink played music.
When Error tried cooking, Ink had already used every ingredient.
When Error tried to sleep early, Ink dragged him into conversations he never asked for, rambling about art projects and parties and whatever nonsense had captured their attention that week.
Error had told them to stop.
Politely, at first.
Then firmly.
Then angrily.
Ink never listened.
The bass hit the wall like a physical force.
Error’s pencil snapped clean in half.
He stared at the calculus textbook in front of him, symbols blurring together as the music thudded through the room—bright, energetic, obnoxiously cheerful. The kind of song that made it impossible to think and impossible to ignore.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Breathe, he told himself.
Then the volume went up.
Error opened his eyes slowly and turned his head.
Ink was sprawled across their bed, one leg hanging off the side, headphones resting uselessly around their neck while the speaker blared. They were nodding along to the beat, fingers tapping against their knee, completely at ease—as if they weren’t sharing a tiny dorm room with someone on the brink of academic collapse.
“Hey,” Error said, carefully. “Could you turn that down a little?”
Ink glanced over. “Oh—yeah, sure. Just a sec.”
They didn’t touch the volume.
“There’s a drop coming up,” Ink added brightly. “You’ll like it.”
“I won’t,” the other said. “I have a calculus exam soon.”
Ink smiled at him. “You’re always studying, though.”
“Yes,” Error replied. “Because I enjoy passing.”
The bass rattled the desk, his notes shifting with every beat.
They noticed the movement and laughed softly. “Wow. The speaker’s really feeling it today.”
He stood so fast that his chair scraped loudly across the floor. “Ink.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve asked you three times.”
Ink tilted their head, genuinely confused. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Ink reached for the speaker. “…After this song?”
Error didn’t answer.
He crossed the room and unplugged it.
The music cut off mid-beat.
Ink blinked at the sudden silence, then looked down at the speaker like it had personally betrayed them. Slowly, they looked back up at Error.
“…Okay,” they frowned. “That was a little dramatic.”
“I’m being polite,” Error snapped. “You’re just not listening.”
Ink sat up, hands raised slightly. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk! I just didn’t realize it was that loud.”
“You never realize,” Error groaned. “That’s the problem.”
Ink frowned—not offended, just thoughtful. “I mean… I guess I get kind of distracted.”
“That’s an understatement,” he laughed, sharp and humorless.
“I know,” Ink paused. “Okay—well. I do now.”
They reached for the cord, clearly about to plug the speaker back in—then hesitated when Error didn’t move.
“…I won’t,” they mumbled. “I promise. I’ll put headphones on.”
“You should’ve done that an hour ago.”
Ink winced. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
Error dragged a hand down his face. “I’ve been studying for six hours! I can’t afford distractions. This exam matters.”
Their expression softened. “You should’ve said that.”
“I did,” he snapped. “Multiple times.”
Ink opened their mouth, then closed it again. “Okay. I hear you now! For real.”
Silence stretched between them—thick, awkward, uncomfortable.
Ink cleared their throat. “For what it’s worth… you’re gonna do great. You always do.”
“That’s not the point,” Error said, quieter now but no less tense. “I don’t want to barely survive because you forget other people exist.”
Ink looked genuinely guilty. “I don’t forget. I just… don’t notice right away.”
Error scoffed. “That’s somehow worse.”
Ink laughed softly. “Yeah. Probably.”
They slid the headphones back on, this time actually plugging them in. Before turning away, Ink glanced back at him.
“Hey,” they said. “If it gets loud again, just—tell me. I’ll fix it.”
Error hesitated, then nodded once. “If you listen the first time.”
Ink smiled. “Deal.”
The speaker remained unplugged between them—silent, harmless now.
Error sat back down, picked up what remained of his pencil, and exhaled slowly.
Ink hummed quietly to themselves through their headphones, tapping their foot—but this time, the desk didn’t move.
It was progress.
From that day on, Ink tried.
Not perfectly. Not consistently. But noticeably.
The music stayed lower. Headphones were used more often than not. Dirty dishes still appeared, but they disappeared faster now—washed before Error could sigh himself into a headache. Ink stopped hovering around his desk when he studied, stopped trying to pull him into conversations when his shoulders were already tense and his jaw clenched like it might crack.
They left him alone.
Mostly.
Error was always studying.
Ink didn’t really understand it. College was loud and messy and full of things that begged to be experienced—midnight food runs, dorm parties that spilled into hallways, friends made on impulse. Ink floated through all of it easily, collecting moments like souvenirs.
Ink had thought, more than once, about dragging him to a party. About shoving a red cup into his hand and telling him to relax for once. But every time Ink glanced at him—hunched over his desk, eyes rimmed red, fingers stained with graphite—they stopped themselves.
Something told them Error wouldn’t enjoy it.
Something told them that he was barely holding himself together as it was.
Ink came back late one night, shoes in hand, laughter still lingering in their chest. The dorm hallway was quiet, lights dimmed, the world softened by the hour. They nudged the door open carefully, already prepared to tiptoe—
—and froze.
Error was sitting at his desk, shoulders shaking.
At first, Ink thought he was laughing. Maybe delirious from studying too long.
Then they heard it.
A small, broken sound—barely louder than breathing.
“Oh,” Ink whispered.
The desk was a mess. Papers scattered, notebook open to a page crowded with equations that tangled over themselves. Error’s hands were pressed to his face, elbows digging into the desk as tears slipped through his fingers and dotted the paper.
Ink slowly closed the door behind them.
“Hey,” they said softly. “Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”
Error didn’t answer.
Ink stepped closer, hesitant, like approaching a startled animal. “Did . . did something happen?”
Still nothing.
Ink crouched beside the desk. “Okay,” they murmured. “I’m just gonna sit here. You don’t have to talk.”
Error let out a shaky breath, then another—and finally looked up.
His eyes were red, his face blotchy, frustration etched deep into every line. “I can’t do it,” he muttered hoarsely.
Ink blinked. “Do what?”
“This problem,” he snapped weakly, gesturing at the page. “I’ve been staring at it for an hour. I’ve tried everything. It doesn’t make sense.”
Ink leaned in, squinting at the equations. “…I don’t know what any of that means.”
Error huffed a laugh that turned into a sob. He covered his face again. “I’m so stupid.”
“Hey,” they said immediately. “No. Nope. Absolutely not.”
They reached out, then hesitated—settling instead for resting a hand on the edge of the desk. “You’re not stupid. You’re exhausted.”
Error shook his head. “If I fail this exam, I lose my scholarship. If I lose that—” His voice cracked. “I can’t afford to be here.”
Ink swallowed.
“Oh,” they said quietly. “Error…”
They sat on the floor beside him, back against the desk. “Okay. Let’s breathe for a second. Just one.”
Error tried. It came out uneven.
Ink breathed with him anyway.
“I don’t know calculus,” Ink admitted gently. “Like, at all. But I do know that you’ve been pushing yourself nonstop. Anyone would break.”
Error wiped at his eyes angrily. “I don’t have time to break.”
Ink looked at him. Really looked.
“You do,” they said. “You just don’t let yourself.”
Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Ink nudged a crumpled tissue box closer with their foot. “Use those. They’re technically communal.”
Error snorted despite himself and took one.
The other smiled, relieved.
They stayed like that for a while—Ink quiet, Error breathing slowly until the shaking stopped.
Eventually, Ink spoke again. “How about this? You take ten minutes. No math. No thinking. Just . . sit. I’ll make tea. Or that ramen you like, the one with chicken in it. Or both!”
Error hesitated. Then nodded once. “Ten minutes.”
Ink stood. “See? Compromise! I can be responsible.” As they moved toward the kitchenette, Ink glanced back. “And hey?”
Error looked up.
“You don’t have to do this alone. Even if all I can do is sit there and remind you you’re not failing at being a person.”
Error swallowed. “Thanks.”
They smiled, softer than usual. “Anytime.”
Ink wasn’t the best roommate.
They were still loud sometimes—laughing too hard, coming home too late, tripping over their own shoes in the dark. They still forgot dishes in the sink and left half-finished projects scattered across their side of the room. They were still Ink.
But they learned.
They learned to use headphones.
They learned to knock before speaking when Error’s desk lamp was on.
They learned the difference between silence and loneliness.
Ink wasn’t great at calculus, or schedules, or reading the room on the first try. But they were good at noticing when Error’s shoulders were too tight, when his breaths came shallow, when his eyes lingered on the page just a second too long.
They were good at sitting on the floor beside him at two in the morning.
Good at making tea that was too sweet.
Good at saying, “You’re allowed to rest,” even when Error didn’t believe it.
Error was still always studying.
Still sharp-edged. Still easily irritated.
But sometimes, when Ink came home late, they found Error already asleep at his desk—textbook closed, pencil set aside. And Ink would quietly turn off the lamp, pull a blanket over his shoulders, and leave the room just the way it was.
Quiet. Comfortable.
Ink wasn’t the best roommate.
But he wasn’t the worst.
He was there.