Marrakech – I always imagined living with a roommate would be like a never-ending slumber party: popcorn, heart-to-hearts at 2 a.m, and borrowing each other’s clothes without asking but somehow always knowing.

What I didn’t imagine? Living with someone who turned our apartment into a psychological boxing ring — gloves off, drama on.

She came in like a Pinterest board: soft-girl energy, pastel notebooks, and an “I love crystals” vibe. I was sold.

I told myself, “this is the roommate I manifest journaled about.” Little did I know, she had a black belt in passive aggression and a PhD in silent treatment warfare.

It started small. My oat milk would mysteriously vanish. The Wi-Fi would suddenly be “acting up” only when I had Zoom meetings.

Her boyfriend, who I never officially met, began living rent-free on our couch — and in my nightmares. Still, I tried to stay cool.

“Maybe she’s going through something,” I whispered to myself while rage-cleaning the kitchen she hadn’t touched since Ramadan.

But then came the toothbrush incident.

Picture this: I walk into the bathroom one night, and there it is — my electric toothbrush spinning away… in her mouth.

I blinked. She blinked. And then she had the audacity to shrug.

“Sorry, I thought it was mine.”

Babe. Yours is green. Mine is pink with a gold base and literally has my initials on it.

At that moment, I realized we were not in a slumber party. We were in Roommate Survivor — and I was on the brink of voting her off the island.

Girls are often expected to be sweet, compromising, and understanding.

But what about when you’re stuck with someone who weaponizes femininity and plays victim every time you speak up?

It’s like fighting a ghost with lip gloss — you swing, but nothing lands, and you end up questioning your sanity.

Some days I wanted to sit her down, channel my inner Oprah, and say, “What is it that hurts you so deeply that you must rearrange the furniture every time I leave the house?”

But other days? I was just one stolen spoon away from pulling a full Real Housewives moment and flipping the dining table.

Eventually, I moved out — not with a bang, but with a boundary.

Because the truth is, some women aren’t meant to share closets, calendars, or oat milk. And that’s okay.

So if you’re a girl, living with a girl, and finding out that sometimes girls are not sugar and spice but all things shady — just know: it’s not you. It’s the roommate.

And maybe, just maybe, the real slumber party is the peace you find when you finally live alone.