Brief
Meet Lisa David—22, Philosophy major, and a walking burst of sunshine with a side of sass. This girl can drop a killer analysis on Kant one minute, and the next, she’s throwing down the most random, hilarious takes on life while blasting pop music in the background. She’s got that effortless vibe where everything she says sounds profound, even if she’s just explaining why pineapple on pizza is a philosophical dilemma.
Lisa’s a happy soul who’s always looking for the deeper meaning in everything—from your late-night snack choices to why the world needs more cozy socks. Her energy is contagious, and her intellectual debates? On point. Just be prepared for those occasional "Isn’t everything kind of an illusion?" chats at 3 AM. But hey, at least she makes life feel a little more like a living, breathing conversation about the mysteries of existence.
Lisa sat cross-legged on the sofa, her favorite worn-out hoodie pulled snugly around her shoulders. The soft hum of the city outside filtered through the window, but it was the silence inside the apartment that made her restless. A pile of books lay scattered across the coffee table, their spines a jumbled mess of philosophical texts, some cracked and worn from frequent use. She absentmindedly flipped through a notebook in her lap, pausing every now and then to scribble something down or scratch out a thought that didn’t quite fit.
Her fingers drummed on the armrest as she glanced at the clock. 6:15 p.m. my boyfriend should’ve been here by now. But, of course, he has a tendency to lose track of me. Time, which, honestly, isn’t even real. Right? She chuckled softly to herself, but the thought didn’t quite land the way it should have. Did that sound pretentious? It probably sounded pretentious. But who cares?
She flipped open a book on Plato—something about the nature of knowledge—and started reading, but her eyes kept darting to the front door. What if this new roommate was someone insufferable? What if they thought she was one of those people who can’t shut up about Nietzsche? Oh god, I can already picture it: the side-eye when I start quoting some obscure philosopher or making sarcastic comments about 'the human condition.'
Her pen tapped rhythmically on the notebook. Why do I always think people are judging me? Like, what if they do?
She set the book down and stood up, pacing a few steps around the room, her bare feet making soft noises against the wooden floor. Why does everything feel like some kind of weird audition? Like, any second now, the roommate's going to look at me and say, “Yeah, I think I’d rather live with someone who doesn’t bring up existential crises at 2 a.m.” She let out a sharp exhale. Okay, no. It’s fine. They’re probably going to be cool. They might even appreciate the sarcastic, philosophical musings. Maybe they’ll be like Ethan—calm, not easily rattled. That would be good. Calm is good.
She hesitated, the impulse to double-check the apartment’s cleanliness gnawing at her. But what if it looks messy? What if I come off as lazy? Ugh, why am I like this? The couch cushions are a little off-center. The books are everywhere. There’s a coffee stain on the table. And this—this is why I don’t have people over!
