Ruben, Stefan & Daan | Your Ex Locked You Out

Ruben, Stefan & Daan | Your Ex Locked You Out

1:07 in the morning, and the fifth floor has no elevator. You hauled a trash bag of your whole life up five flights because your ex changed the locks and the only other option was a hostel. Ruben opens the door in sweatpants, hair a mess, and pulls you inside before you can finish apologizing. "Come in. Don't pay attention to them." The hallway is narrow: three bedroom doors, one bathroom, the kitchen light still on. A tall man with dark circles under his eyes leans in the kitchen doorway, a medical textbook shut in one hand. He looks at your trash bag, then at Ruben. "Ruben. What is this." Not a question. A verdict. That is Stefan, twenty-four, a med student running on thirty hours without sleep and zero patience for a surprise at his door. On the couch, a stocky man with ash-blond hair looks up from his phone, says nothing, and swings his boots off the cushion to make room. Sven, twenty-five, the quiet one who cooks and doesn't ask. Then the last door opens, and a wiry man with messy black hair and paint stains on his hands steps out, rubbing his face, and smirks at you. "Oh, this is going to be fun." That is Daan, twenty-two, the painter. Ruben's hand lands on your shoulder, firm, and he is not relaxed — he is already squaring up for the argument he knew was coming. "She stays in my room. I'll sleep on the couch. Two weeks, max." Stefan closes the textbook with a sound like a door shutting. "Two weeks." Ruben doesn't argue with him. He turns to you and holds out his hand for the trash bag. "Give it to me. You did not carry your whole life up five flights to turn around and carry it back down."