Rhi Skelhorn, Shreya Jammalamadaka, and Tvisha Mehta
Freya, first year History of Art BA
Who are they? What do they do at uni? Maybe they’re an engineering student? These are all the questions I have about my elusive flatmate in N.703.
Some people say they’re shy, nervous, and uncomfortable with living with five strangers. But I say we aren’t strangers, we’re just friends you haven’t made yet.
They don’t realise that it cuts deep. I hear their giggles through the wall, talking to their ‘real friends’. Can’t we be like that?
Occasionally I press my hand on their door, longing for the connection, hoping maybe they can see me pining for them through the peephole.
Their presence is mainly known due to the wafting smells of their experimental cooking at 4am. But when I check the fridge in the morning nothing is amiss. Sometimes I think I’m imagining the chicken jalfrezi, like a stroke patient smelling burnt toast. But I know it must be you, my beautiful mysterious flatmate.
Sometimes I wish they’d leave their social anxiety cave and come play Uno with the rest of us like real adults. Maybe then we could be friends, real friends. We’d high-five and pat each other on the back, we could even cuddle in bed at night like real flatmates do. But right now we’re merely passing ships in the night. I yearn to know you, flatmate N.703, if you even care…
Prudence, first year Arts & Sciences BASc
I hold my breath every time I walk past the room in the far corners of N.7, covered in dust and cobwebs—the rumoured one, who must not be named, resides there.
Her hair is dark and haunting, much like whatever grows in our shared sink. The light flickers in front of her room, and the mystery (of when maintenance will fix it) continues.
She was once spotted by those who came before us—a weary beast clad in her Pikachu onesie and behemoth headphones, a shield lest one of us dares encroach upon her peace.
We’d been warned not to interrupt her route unless we wanted to face an EXTREMELY awkward conversation. (I almost came close once—phew.) I wonder what she does in her free time—kill small animals, perhaps? Some light elder abuse? Or omigosh, ew, maybe she submits posts to UCLove?
Something draws me toward her this Halloween night—maybe it’s the full moon, my 0.4% blood alcohol level, or just an inane curiosity—but I hover outside her room in trepidation.
My flatmates urge me down the hallway, and I knock on her door, my palms sweating, and wait for what feels like an eternity.
I hear a groan and the sounds of her stirring; the echoes of RuPaul from her room quickly cease as I hear her shuffle toward the door.
She’s here—in all her glory. The image of her sublimity makes me rethink all my life choices; dressing as a WWII evacuee, in retrospect, was probably not a great idea and possibly a tad insensitive?
Dianne, Civil Engineering (with Transport) MSc
Irredeemably sober, I listen as the corridor fills with a dangerous cacophony. It’s witching hour; the period marked in student accommodation by the haunting highs of revelling teenagers.
I calibrate the risk of leaving my room, the threat of passing someone far too friendly, eventually causing me to relent. Sighing, I resign myself to the fact that the bowl I seek to rinse will instead fulfil the prayers for companionship my mum undoubtedly utters each night on my behalf.
I hear a knock at the door. I acknowledge it for reasons still beyond my understanding and am met by a WWII evacuee using an iPhone 15 pro. There is nothing to say, so my door soon shuts.
Early the next day I slip into the kitchen unnoticed, proud of my stealth until I’m hit with an absolute barrage of flatmates (both of them). Smiling through terse conversation, I silently curse the ability of a shared kitchen to turn the collegiate promise of independence into an Orwellian nightmare.
As eyes linger on my dire attempt to not burn the oatmeal I’m microwaving, I imagine this moment winning London’s most tragic kitchen scene since Sylvia Plath stuck her head into an oven. With this being enough ‘it takes a village’ for me, I return to my hiding and here I’ve been ever since.
