by Zoran Ernjakovic
Brian’s new roommate arrived three weeks into the semester, dragging nothing but a small silver cube that hummed when you got too close.
“My name is Zyx,” he said, extending a hand that gripped just a beat too long. “Pronounced like ‘zicks.'”
He was clearly an alien.
Not that Brian said anything. You didn’t just say things like that. But the evidence piled up fast: the strange double-blink, the stiff, rehearsed phrases, the way he stood in the corner that first night humming in the dark to “recharge.” Brian pretended to sleep and wondered if he should call someone. Campus security? NASA?
By morning, Zyx was sitting cross-legged on his bare mattress, watching Brian with the intensity of a nature documentary.
“Why do you peel the yellow fruit?” Zyx asked at breakfast.
“The banana? Because the peel tastes terrible.”
“Terrible,” Zyx repeated, testing the word. “I will remember this.”
Brian tried. He really did. He taught Zyx how to use the bathroom without announcing it, how to eat pizza without inspecting every pepperoni, how to watch TV without asking why humans enjoyed shows about people pretending to live in boxes.
“It’s escapism,” Brian explained.
“But you already live in a box.”
“That’s not, never mind.”
In biology class, Zyx raised his hand and politely informed Professor Martinez that human cellular regeneration could be accelerated by 340% with the proper frequency modulation. “You would learn more in seven years,” he added helpfully.
The professor stared. The class stared. Brian sank lower in his seat.
But Zyx was trying. Brian could see that. He practiced small talk in the mirror: How about that weather? Go Wildcats. Brian took him to a party where Zyx drank exactly one beer, calculated its effects in real time, and accidentally impressed a philosophy major by asking whether consciousness required biological substrate or merely recursive self-awareness.
She gave him her number.
By midterms, the dean called Brian in. Zyx had aced every exam, not just aced, but answered questions that hadn’t been asked, in subjects he wasn’t taking.
“Tell him to miss a few,” Brian said that night.
Zyx blinked, both lids, then just the outer ones. “This is strategic deception.”
“This is survival, man.”
Winter break came. Zyx discovered pizza rolls, joined the chess club and the astronomy club (where he was eventually asked to stop correcting the telescope readings), and learned to laugh at memes approximately four seconds after everyone else did.
One night, while they were both sprawling on their beds in the dark, Zyx spoke quietly.
“I will return home in spring.”
Brian had known, somehow. Still, his chest tightened. “Yeah?”
“Yes. My study period concludes.”
“Study period.”
“I have been observing. Learning. You have been…” Zyx paused, searching for the word. “A good box-mate.”
“Roommate.”
“Yes.”
They didn’t talk about it again.
When spring came, Zyx packed his silver cube and stood in the doorway. He smiled, almost naturally this time, the corners of his mouth only slightly asymmetrical, and waved.
“Go Wildcats,” he said.
Then he was gone.
Brian’s next roommate moved in a week later. Kyle. He left wet towels everywhere, blasted music at 2 AM, and once ate Brian’s last Hot Pocket without asking.
Brian found himself staring at the empty corner where Zyx used to hum in the dark and realized, with a strange ache, that he actually missed the alien.
It had been surprisingly meaningful overall.
Zoran Ernjakovic is an International Business student hailing from Saugus, Massachusetts who studies at Bryant University. He has an affinity for works spanning from science fiction to prose and is constantly working in the background to master his complexity and creativity in literature.
Hawaii Pacific Review 