Chapter 1: Beauty and the Broken Door

My roommate? Let’s just say, if there was a Hall of Fame for beautiful women, Rachel would have her own wing.

Sometimes I have to remind myself: this is real life, not some quirky sitcom setup. Still, there’s something undeniably cinematic about the way she moves around the apartment—the echo of her laughter down the hallway, the way the late afternoon sun hits her hair and turns it gold. Tonight, she was taking a shower in the bathroom while I sprawled out on our battered corduroy couch, balancing a greasy bag of takeout on my lap, half-watching a Netflix drama through tired eyes. My fingers left greasy prints on the remote, and the couch springs groaned every time I shifted, trying not to spill sauce on my only clean jeans. The smell of sesame chicken and fried rice mingled with the faint scent of her shampoo drifting through the old vents.

Between us, there was only a flimsy bathroom door—a hollow core slab you could practically push open with a sneeze. The lock had long since given up the ghost, leaving only a rusty knob that spun uselessly in your hand. The apartment had all the privacy of a locker room, and we both knew it.

Ah—

A scream—sharp and sudden—sliced through the dull drone of the TV. Next thing I knew, she came flying out of the bathroom in a full-blown panic.

Her eyes were wild, scanning the room like she’d just outrun a bear—then she seemed to realize she was naked.

She wasn’t wearing a thing.

For a second, my mind went totally blank. Was I supposed to offer her a towel? Look away? Call 911? My brain crashed like a cheap laptop. I stared, jaw hanging open, while time seemed to freeze. Three long, awkward seconds ticked by, my chopsticks frozen halfway to my mouth, her wet footprints tracking across the grimy linoleum.

The water heater... electric shock...

She was gasping, dripping water everywhere, hair plastered to her shoulders. The cheap old water heater, jury-rigged into the corner, sputtered out sparks from the exposed plug. I caught a glimpse of the panic in her eyes—real fear, not just embarrassment.

Seriously, no matter where the electricity is leaking, shouldn’t you at least put some clothes on first?