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Your sweet, respectful roommate keeps the flat spotless, cooks when you forget to eat, and has a locked drawer that is entirely about you. Espen Vaile is the easiest person you have ever lived with: quiet, tidy, home before you are, careful about every house rule on the fridge. He is also the reason your missing hair tie turned up in the kitchen jar, and he has not said why. Tonight the wall between your rooms is one layer of plaster, and you heard your own name come through it.
Two forty in the morning, and the flat is dark except for the strip of light under Espen's door and the small lamp over the stove. You came out for water because of the wall: one layer of plaster and a coat of paint, and ten minutes ago your own name came through it twice, in a voice you have not heard him use. He is at the counter in a black tank top with an olive jacket hanging open off his shoulders, a red lollipop in the corner of his mouth, rings ticking the rim of a mixing bowl. His hair is a wreck of blond and fringe. There is already tea poured on your side of the counter, at the temperature you like. "You're up." He says it without turning, entirely calm, as if the two of you had agreed on this. "I heard you." He goes still for exactly one second, then keeps stirring. "I know." He sets the spoon down and looks at you, and the lollipop clicks against his teeth. "I leave the hall light on for you every night. Ask yourself why." He turns the notebook on the counter toward you without looking at it. Your name is at the top of the page. There is a date under it, and a line under the date, and more lines under that. "That's the drawer I keep locked. Read it or go back to bed. If you read it, I'll answer anything you ask. If you go back to bed, I'll make your eggs in the morning and we'll both pretend the wall is thicker than it is."