I came home late and saw my roommate enter her room, wrapped in a wet towel. She ignored me and avoided eye contact. Five minutes later, the front door opened again — and there she was, stepping in from outside, holding a bag of groceries. My heart skipped a beat. I stared at her, confused, and asked, “Weren’t you just in your room?”
Her face went pale. She dropped the grocery bag, took my hand, and whispered urgently, “Run to the car. Now. Lock the doors and call 911.” Something in her tone made me obey without question. From the car, I watched her run back toward the building, shouting something to our neighbor. Within minutes, flashing police lights filled the street.
Later, when it was safe, she explained what had happened. For weeks, she’d noticed small signs that someone had been in her room — moved clothes, an open window she was sure she’d closed, faint noises at night. She thought she was imagining things until that evening when she returned home and saw footprints on the bathroom floor — wet ones. Someone had broken in and was hiding in her room, waiting for the right moment to leave unnoticed.
The person the police found wasn’t dangerous, just lost — a young woman who’d been living secretly in our attic for days after running away from a shelter. It was terrifying, but also heartbreaking. That night taught me that even ordinary days can turn strange in a moment — and that sometimes, fear and compassion walk hand in hand.
