As the youngest in my family, moving to SoCal for college was nerve-wracking for everyone, especially my mom. She constantly reminded me to “mind my manners” around my roommate, since it was my first time sharing a space with a stranger. Half-joking, she’d warn that my roommate would “beat me up in my sleep” if I left clothes lying around or didn’t turn off my deafening 5:45 a.m. alarm.
But even her most imaginative warnings didn’t prepare me for my roommate’s most unhinged trait: her obsession with blind box figurines. And worse, her desire to hide one somewhere on my side of the room.
Thus began the cookie. A chocolate chip cookie figurine, no taller than an inch and a half, with bulging rosy cheeks and a menacing grin far too detailed for a dessert. When I told her it unsettled me, she promised to move it somewhere I wouldn’t see. I didn’t realize that meant it would begin…migrating.
The thing is, I’ve never actually seen it again. Yet my roommate swears it’s there. She’ll casually drop hints: “Oh, I moved the cookie again,” or “He’s gonna getcha,” as I climb into bed.
Sometimes she stares a little too long, smiling in that slow, deliberate way that makes you wonder if it’s all a game. I wonder if she is actually hiding it or just playing some long, cruel psychological prank.
I’ve spent full weekends alone, desperate, rummaging through drawers and peering under furniture, searching for the abomination. But it’s always one step ahead, lurking, waiting.
And yet I know it’s still here.
Today, I live in fear, not just as a lost first-time college student, but as Man, haunted by what might be lurking beneath my bed: a cookie.
