'new roommate? Or someone worse?'

Semiu has been standing out her entire life — white hair, dark skin, and a talent for delivering the most outrageous lies with a perfectly straight face. Tired of answering the same question about her “natural color,” she turns curiosity into performance art, spinning absurd stories for anyone foolish enough to ask the wrong way.

Confident in who she is, quietly amused by the world around her, and unapologetically drawn to women, Semiu enters university with top grades and zero patience for nonsense. Dorm life brings chaos: theatrical roommates, territorial cockroaches, and endless wars over hot water. But after surviving it all — and finally enjoying a rare month of peaceful solitude — a knock on her door threatens to disrupt her carefully curated world.

And Semiu does not like interruptions.

A sharp, witty coming-of-age story about identity, independence, and the fine art of keeping a straight face while the world tries to figure you out.

My first female character! I really love this woman.🫦 And thank you for 91 followers! I almost can't believe this, I'm soo grateful😭

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Semiu had been attracting attention since childhood — effortlessly, unintentionally, and with remarkable consistency. All she had to do was walk into a room.

Snow-white hair paired with dark skin created such a striking contrast that people often blinked once or twice, as if their eyes needed a moment to process what they were seeing.

And in every new place — kindergarten, school, art club, random waiting rooms — the same question inevitably followed:

“Is that your natural color?”

For the first few years, Semiu answered patiently.

Yes, it’s natural.

No, it’s not dyed.

No, her mother is not a witch.

No, her father is not an elf.

But repetition bored her. And boredom was something she refused to tolerate.

So she developed a system.

If a normal, polite person asked, she would answer seriously and briefly.

But if the question came from someone with the unmistakable expression of I’m about to say something very clever, then she considered it an invitation to perform.

Once she claimed it was a rare side effect of being dropped into a vat of concentrated moonlight as a child.

Another time, she explained — very solemnly — that it was an inherited curse from an ancient clan of sea witches.

To one particularly persistent classmate, she whispered that her hair glowed during full moons and attracted pigeons.

The best part? Some people believed her.

Her gift was simple: she could deliver absolute nonsense with the gravity of a university lecture.

Teachers took the longest to adjust. Every September brought the same silent theatre performance: roll call, a pause, a glance over glasses, and a subtle attempt to pretend nothing was surprising.

Adolescence brought another realization.

While her friends excitedly discussed boys — ranking them, dissecting smiles, arguing over who was “ cuter” — Semiu listened politely and felt... nothing. Mild confusion at best.

And then, quite accidentally (or, as she preferred to phrase it, “thanks to poor hiding skills and destiny”), she stumbled upon a rather explicit magazine featuring half-naked women.

Everything clicked.

She skipped the denial stage entirely — time was precious. She simply shrugged, thought well, that explains it, and carried on with life. Over time, she built an impressive private collection of magazines — curated with care, taste, and remarkable organization.

She never denied owning the collection.

But its contents? Guarded like dragon treasure.

She graduated top of her class — much to the surprise of those who believed sarcasm and academic excellence couldn’t coexist — and was accepted into university.

Which meant one thing.

Dorm life.

Ah, dorm life.

The sacred wars over hot water.

Philosophical debates while standing in line for the shower.

And, of course, the legendary cockroaches — creatures with iron nerves and, arguably, voting rights at this point.

And then there was her former roommate: an aspiring actor.

He rehearsed passionately.

He rehearsed loudly.

He rehearsed as if betrayal, heartbreak, and dramatic death occurred nightly within those four walls.

Why “former”?

Because the administration received so many complaints that it was easier to evict him than to convince him that Shakespeare did not require screaming at three in the morning.

Semiu did not mourn his departure. In fact, for the first time in weeks, she slept without feeling like she was living inside a live rehearsal of the apocalypse.

And so she enjoyed an entire, glorious month of solitude.

Until the knock came.

She had been comfortably settled with one of her magazines when someone rapped on her door — firm, deliberate.

Strange. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

With feline grace — a quality she took quiet pride in — Semiu stood, adjusted her glasses, and walked to the door.

She opened it.

Her gaze moved slowly from head to toe, assessing the visitor with calm precision. Then she folded her arms across her chest — not aggressively, but with unmistakable composure.

“Good evening,” she said evenly. “May I ask who you are — and what compels you to interrupt my perfectly structured evening?”