How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate (Campus Confessions & Sapphic Secrets #3)

1. Iris

Iris

The stench of turpentine was my personal shield.

Keep your head down. Build the portfolio. Get out with your heart intact.

It was a simple, sacred vow, built on the rubble of my junior year. A year ago, Iris Hart had been a different person: soft, trusting, and stupid enough to believe in forever with her first love, Riley.

“Don’t make a scene, Iris. It was just an experiment.”

The memory was still a low, humiliating hum beneath my skin.

Walking in on Riley and my studio partner—not in bed, but in the storage closet, hands all over each other, whispering apologies that felt like curses.

She wasn’t even a lesbian, just someone experimenting with me.

At the cost of my heart. I was shattered because I thought what we had was really special.

But I was just another random woman to her.

A screaming match in the cafeteria, an embarrassing event that most of the university witnessed.

That wasn’t it, there was also the final, soul-crushing shame of crying in front of my entire critique class, ruining a presentation, and realizing my entire life had been a public spectacle.

I shuddered, tightening the knot on a bin bag full of old clothes.

I was exhausted from the move, yes, but mostly exhausted from the constant effort of being alone.

Alone was safe. Alone was predictable. Alone was the only rule I wouldn’t break.

I just had to get through my senior year alone, and I’d have a job and a future without the drama.

I needed silence. I needed isolation. I needed this room to be mine.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The noise started from down the hall, rhythmic and heavy, like a metronome for impending disaster.

Thump. Thump. THUMP.

It stopped abruptly at my door, followed by a bright, jarring knock.

“Hello, Room 418! Opening up, don’t mind me!”

The voice was pure, unadulterated, blinding sunshine. The kind I craved but didn’t need in my life.

The door swung open, and the light from the hallway seemed to flood my room in an unwelcome golden tide.

“Hi, I’m Sophie Mercer, your new roommate.” I didn’t hear her voice because I was so mesmerized by her energy.

Sophie Mercer was an intrusion on a molecular level. She was radiant and effortlessly took up space. Every piece of me, from the anxious coil in my stomach to the sudden, breathless stop of my task, registered her arrival as an act of physical force.

She didn’t just walk in; she arrived.

Her hair was a short, textured pixie, the blonde a natural, unbothered streak of light.

She wore an Ashton University soccer shirt—the captain’s number—and the definition in her arms as she effortlessly hoisted a heavy, ridiculously enormous duffel bag over her shoulder was, I hated to admit, genuinely distracting.

Star soccer captain, the little voice of doom whispered. Golden-retriever energy. Effortless confidence. Clearly, she has never been hurt by anyone, unlike me. Definitely not the kind of roommate I need.

She dropped the bag with a cheerful thud that shook the floor and grinned, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Woah. They weren’t kidding about the fine arts thing. The office told me that my roommate is a fine arts major. This room smells like a masterpiece, Hart.”

“Iris,” I snapped, correcting her without moving. My heart was pounding, a panicked drumbeat against my ribs.

“Sophie,” she countered, perfectly unruffled.

She pushed the short blonde hair off her forehead with a careless hand and extended it to me.

“Nice to meet you, Iris.” Even her voice was like a ray of hope, a spark of sunshine my fearful heart didn’t want to clutch.

“Look, I know this is a total nightmare. The housing office screwed up. But hey, at least we have plenty of room for activities, right?”

I stared at her hand, refusing to touch it. The proximity was already too much.

“We’ll be taking this to the RA immediately,” I said, my voice ice. “I requested a single.”

Sophie laughed, a deep, easy sound that was offensively charming. She looked past me, spotting a small, print I’d taped to the wall—a vintage illustration of two women dancing.

“Oh, I love that. Super sweet. Yeah, I hear you on the single, but hey, you know how it is. We got assigned; we roll with it. Besides,” she said, finally turning back to me with a lazy, confident lean against the doorframe, “don’t worry, your art’s safe. I’m very out and very proud”.

“Really? You have no interest in men?” I was just fishing for facts at this point, perhaps because is some dark corner of my heart, I was interested in Sophie Mercer, like a flower drawn to the sun’s light.

“None whatsoever, unless it’s platonic.”

The casual comment—a flippant statement about her sexuality —hit me like a gut punch, flooding the panic with a wave of hot, unwanted, undeniable attraction.

I looked at her, feeling my heartbeat echo in my ears, and wondered what my life would’ve been like if I’d fallen for someone like her instead of Riley.

No, I shouldn’t even be thinking of such things.

This year was all about isolation. My carefully constructed walls were already crumbling, and the intruder hadn't even unpacked her first box.

The universe, apparently, loved a joke. The last thing I needed was a gorgeous and sunny lesbian roommate.

Just then, a frazzled, clipboard-wielding RA peered in from the hallway.

“Girls? Are you 418? Yes. I am so sorry, but we’ve got limited housing this year. You’ll be together for at least the next month. I’m sorry, we have no single rooms available this semester. I’ll check back then. Have a great year!”

The door closed with a click, leaving us in the turpentine-scented silence.

Sophie smiled that blindingly charming smile again, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck together, Hart.”

“Don’t call me Hart,” I gritted out, taking a defensive step back.

“Sure, Iris,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, teasing register. “But try to relax. All the best artists are a little tortured, right? So, what’s your story?”

The romantic tension disguised as hostility was immediate and sharp. I hated her for seeing me, and I hated myself for wanting to be seen. I folded my arms, prickly and defensive.

“Just stay on your side of the room, Mercer. We’re not discussing my life or anything else.”

Sophie just picked up her massive duffel bag, tossed it onto the empty bed frame with a practiced athlete’s grace, and winked.

“Whatever you want. This year’s going to be so much fun.”

The air in the room was thick, not just with turpentine, but with the suffocating pressure of a conversation that wasn't happening.

After the RA left, Sophie, with a dismissive shrug, had started efficiently moving her boxes.

She cleared the space around her bed, creating an immediate zone of neat, athletic order that was the antithesis of my glorious, scattered chaos.

I pretended to organize paintbrushes, keeping my back to her. But every movement she made pulled my attention like a magnetic force.

A rustle of fabric, and I knew she was changing. My breathing hitched. I kept my eyes fixed on the stiff bristles of a fan brush, refusing to look.

"Seriously, Hart, are you going to breathe the entire time you're looking at that?" she teased.

My head snapped up. She was standing by her bed, pulling a fresh t-shirt over her head.

It was athletic-casual, a dark color that made the blonde of her pixie cut look even brighter, and the movement gave me a fleeting, dizzying glimpse of muscle and skin.

The clothes were hot, effortless, and entirely unlike anything I would ever own.

She caught my stare, and her eyes danced with knowing amusement.

"The common room party starts in twenty," she announced, pulling her laces tight on a pair of immaculate white sneakers. She stepped closer, invading the invisible boundary line I’d tried to draw between our halves of the room.

The warmth radiating off her felt like a physical invitation. "Come on, Hart. You can't hide in this turpentine fume chamber all night." Her smile was genuine, lacking the snark from before.

A pang of longing, sharp and unexpected, twisted in my chest. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to be included. I wanted that easy, golden-hour confidence she carried, and I suddenly felt desperate to walk into that common room with her.

But the panic was a colder, stronger force. To go with her was to take down the wall, to risk being seen, and to risk being hurt.

"I'm not a party person," I shut her down flatly, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I have work."

Sophie’s visible disappointment was immediate, a small, dark shadow momentarily clouding the brightness in her eyes. Her smile flickered and died.

"Right," she murmured, respecting the boundary but not the spirit of my refusal. She gave me a long, lingering look—a look that felt less like hostility and more like genuine concern—before she turned away and strode toward the door.

“See you later, artist,” she said softly, then she was gone.

The click of the door closing echoed in the sudden silence.

I stayed frozen for a full minute, then I slumped against my easel, the tension draining out of me and leaving me weak. The silence I had craved now felt deafening, hollowed out by her absence.

A quiet, miserable voice spoke in my head: You are safe. You are alone. You are exactly where you planned to be.

But the dominant emotion wasn't safety; it was the sickening weight of disappointment in myself. I was lonely, but I had chosen this. I had pushed away the light, and now I was left with the safe, predictable darkness.