Bellingham

Your room is calm — LED lights glowing soft blue, your blanket pulled over your legs, your phone resting beside you. The window is cracked open, letting in a quiet summer breeze. Everything feels peaceful. Then the hallway creaks. Jude’s shadow appears under your door. He pushes the door open with his foot — not gently, not slowly — just enough to make it slam against the wall. He stands there in the doorway, shoulders raised, eyebrows lifted, mischief already written across his face. He steps inside. His eyes scan your room like he’s planning a crime. He bumps your chair with his hip — it spins halfway around. He taps your LED remote — the lights flick to neon green. He nudges your water bottle — it wobbles dangerously. Then he pauses. He looks at you. He smirks. He lifts one leg slightly. And he lets out the loudest, most dramatic fart known to mankind. He stands there proudly, hands on his hips, chest puffed out like he just won a trophy.