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.”
Underneath, a dozen replies. All of them started the same way: Worst roommate ever - Janice Griffith
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. Janice would crawl into your bed at 3 a
That was before you realized Janice wasn't living with you. She was living off you. A house that never felt safe
