It oddly makes sense, so I take the information as it is and press on the buttons. While the omelet cooks, I regard my new roommate with a new sense of curiosity.

He is an immigrant, lives alone, makes a good income from how nice his house is—a black kid living the American dream, basically. Kind of like I was, before my wake-up call, that is. I see what a nightmare society really is now, trying to clamp you in its jaws. It is kind of satisfying to see others living in that bliss of ignorance. They are still free, in a sense.

Heat fills my cheeks, a small sting that pricks at it like needles. When that first happened, I was losing my mind at how raw and new the sudden rise of temperature was. But I realized the eerie lemon-green glow that the scars on my face emitted was just a sign-- a sixth sense of sorts-- to prompt me when something was impending.

Shielding my face with my hands, I spin around, head bowed and eyes darting around, wildly looking for whatever is creating this reaction. From the corner of my eyes, I see his phone lying on the counter, several feet away. Gotcha.

"Your phone," I say, voice heavy as I try to steady my breathing. It's always hard faking nonchalance and subtlety when your face is on fire.

"My... phone?"

"Yes! Your phone." I clench my teeth as I feel the heat rising higher and higher each agonizing second that passes. The glow from my face reflects a green-tinged hue on my fingers when I stare down at them. Geez, when is this going to stop?

"What has it-"

Before he can finish, the shrill sound of his ringtone cuts through the air and the level of heat I'm subjected to immediately drops.

His hands scramble for the device and he answers it, walking out of the kitchen as he mumbles some form of greeting. It's all gibberish to me as it's in a language I don't understand. I don't think I've ever heard it before either.

I can finally take a full breath as the suffocating feeling dies down. My reflection stares back at me from the tinted, see-through door of the microwave.

"How did you know it was going-"

"Felt it vibrate," I cut in.

"Oh..." he says, staring down at his phone as if it can somehow offer him an explanation. Maybe it can—after all, the guy can talk to his microwave.

"I'm going to work soon." His eyes are trained on his hands as he buttons the cuffs on the freshly ironed shirt he wears. "Remember to lock up if you leave- is that fine?"

"It is." I scoop a bite of the omelet into my mouth. "Where do you work, if I may ask?"

"I'm an IT consultant at Deloitte," He says, as if it's the most casual thing to say.

If I had any liquid in my mouth, I would have spat it out. Instead I choke in the most unflattering way, tears building up in the corner of my eyes and all. This guy really is living the American dream. Deloitte is harder to get in than freaking Harvard!

"Oh my- shit. God, are you okay? Do I need--" He freaks out over my coughing but I dismiss his concern by shamefully stating that I'm fine despite my laboured breaths. The heat in my face isn't from my powers this time around.

"Wow, no wonder you have a microwave that understands English."

Kobby laughs, wiping his brow while his eyes focus on his shirt again. "Well, I better get going." He picks up his suit jacket that hung on the back of one chair and slips it on, adjusting his collar and tie.

Admittedly, he looks good all dressed up in that suffocating attire. The navy blue colour of the suit goes well with the brown colour of his skin and eyes. Blue really is his colour.

"Where do you work?" Kobby asks.

If I have ever complained about him being quiet and slightly withdrawn, sue me. He needs more of the syndrome sprinkled on him.