Frida
When I walk into my apartment after a long day at the gym, Zarah, my roommate, is making dinner. The whole apartment smells like pancakes, and I lift an eyebrow.
“Since when do you cook?” I ask, a bit worried since the last time I ate my goth roomie’s cooking, I had diarrhea that stuck around for two entire days.
“The guy I’m trying to impress told me he loves homecooked meals, especially breakfast, so I’m following a Youtube recipe for the best pancakes,” Zarah answers and sticks out her head from the kitchen. She is holding a spatula in her hand, and I’m shocked to see that she isn’t wearing black.
“What happened to the emo clothes?”
At that question, she actually laughs. It shocks me a little since the sadist rarely ever smiles when the two of us are alone. She does it a lot
