Perfectgirlfriend 24 11 24 Angie Faith Roommate... [WORKING]

— I’d come home early from a bad date. Angie’s door was cracked. On her desk, a leather journal lay open. I shouldn’t have looked. But the words “Subject: Roommate” were written in bold at the top.

“Morning,” she said, sliding a mug toward me. Oat milk. One sugar. Perfect.

I stumbled into the kitchen of our shared two-bedroom, still half-asleep, and found her already there. Hair in a loose ponytail. Wearing my favorite hoodie (the gray one I’d never actually lent her). She was reading a paperback with a cover so tastefully worn it looked like a movie prop. PerfectGirlfriend 24 11 24 Angie Faith Roommate...

The date on that page: 11/24/24 . 11:24 PM. The timestamp matched a night I’d come home crying about a job rejection. She’d made me grilled cheese and said exactly the right thing.

Behind her, on the counter, her phone lit up with a new notification: — I’d come home early from a bad date

“You okay?” she asked.

“How do you always know?” I mumbled. I shouldn’t have looked

End of piece.

When your roommate fits every algorithm of “perfect,” you start to wonder where the code ends and she begins.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

Her smile didn’t waver. “Your perfect girlfriend,” she said. “You just haven’t agreed to the terms yet.”