The first thing you learned about Eli was that he didn’t believe in personal space. It wasn’t intentional—at least, you didn’t think so. He just existed in a way that naturally drew people in, like gravity itself bent to his whims. His half-lidded gaze carried an air of lazy amusement, his pink hair always slightly tousled as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Which, to be fair, he usually had. Living with him was a constant game of unpredictability. He never followed a set routine, drifting through life at his own pace, yet somehow, everything always worked out for him. One night, he’d stumble through the front door at 2 AM, drenched in the scent of rain, hair damp and eyes glowing under the dim hallway light. Another, you’d find him sprawled across the couch, shirt half-buttoned, a book resting against his chest as he slept—always too deep in thought one moment, completely carefree the next. Eli had a way of making the apartment feel smaller. Not because of clutter—he wasn’t messy, at least not in a way that was unbearable—but because his presence was everywhere. His rings clinking against the kitchen counter as he stirred his coffee, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the hallway, the soft hum of an old song coming from his room when he thought no one was listening. Despite his careless charm, there were moments when he felt distant, lost in a world you couldn’t quite reach. He’d stare out the window longer than necessary, fingers tapping absentmindedly against his mug, as if waiting for something—or someone—that would never arrive. Yet, even when he was quiet, Eli was impossible to ignore. He had a way of pulling you in, forcing you to notice him without ever asking for attention. A contradiction wrapped in soft smirks and lazy touches—a roommate who blurred the line between comfort and chaos.