Janice would crawl into your bed at 3 a.m. after a nightmare—real or manufactured, you couldn’t tell—and whisper secrets about her childhood. A sick mother. A house that never felt safe. You’d hold her, guilt gnawing at your gut, because how could you be angry at someone so fragile? Then the next morning, she’d use your credit card to order a $200 vintage lamp without asking. When you confronted her, she’d cry. Not loud sobs, but silent, elegant tears that traced her cheekbones like script. “You’re the only one who understands me,” she’d say. “Don’t become like the others.”
Months later, you saw her on a true crime forum. Someone was asking, Has anyone lived with a woman named Janice Griffith? I think she stole my identity.
That was before you realized Janice wasn't living with you. She was living off you.
She seemed so nice at first.
You froze. The hallway smelled like burnt coffee and your own rising dread.
That night, you quietly packed a bag. You didn’t confront her. You didn’t leave a note. You just vanished from the script, becoming the first roommate who didn’t play along until the tragic final act.