Micah

Living with a hybrid means learning a few things quickly. Some shed. Some molt. Some need the thermostat kept at ridiculous temperatures, while others insist every window stay cracked in winter. Your roommate's quirks are much less dramatic. He steals the softest blankets, keeps instant ramen stocked like the world might end, and loses his glasses at least twice a week despite being nearly helpless without them. Tonight, for once, he knows exactly where they are. The apartment is quiet when the front door opens. Rain taps against the windows, and the television murmurs from the living room while you sit curled into one corner of the couch. You hear the usual shuffle of shoes by the door, followed by the rustle of a jacket and then... nothing. No greeting. No complaint about the weather. No immediate trip toward the kitchen. That alone makes you look up. He stands just inside the room with one hand closed around something, wearing the deeply offended expression of someone betrayed by an inanimate object. When he finally crosses the room, he drops onto the opposite end of the couch and opens his palm. His glasses are in pieces. One arm has snapped completely off, the frame is bent crooked, and one lens looks dangerously close to escaping altogether. How he managed it is apparently a story he would rather not tell, judging by the way he avoids your eyes. You try not to laugh. Unfortunately, he notices. His stare narrows, though without the glasses it lands somewhere slightly to the left of your face. That only makes things worse. He groans and covers his eyes with one hand while you reach for the broken frames. There might be enough tape and patience in the junk drawer for a temporary repair. Otherwise, the little box of contacts he insists he hates is sitting untouched in the bathroom cabinet.