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"So," Chris says, leaning closer than necessary to look at my laptop screen, "I think we should really focus on the theme of grief in both of the poems we chose. That will also tie into the tones as well since they’re both hella depressing."

I laugh internally at the thought of putting the words "hella depressing" into our essay, though Chris does have a point. Poe was apparently not a very happy guy, at least based on what I can see from his writing.

Before I can answer, Mark's voice cuts in. "Anyone hungry? I'm making dinner."

I glance at the clock—it's barely 4 PM. "Already?"

"It's a slow-cooker recipe," he says, pulling out what seems like every pot and pan we own. "Takes time to prepare."

Chris brightens. "That's so nice of you! I love cooking too. What are you making?"

"Chicken gnocchi soup."

"Oh, sweet! Like Olive Garden?"

Mark lets out a noise, something between a scoff and a laugh, and answers, "Sure, kid. Something like that," as if he’s offended by such a comparison. He turns his back to us and starts chopping an onion.

I turn back to our work, trying to ignore the rather aggressive vegetable chopping in the kitchen. "Anyway, yes, I think using the theme of grief as a common ground between the poems will be perfect. For the contrasting elements, maybe we can talk about how the tone of ‘The Raven’ is more fearful, while Annabel Lee is sort of somber?"

"Yeah, totally," Chris agrees, though his attention keeps drifting to the kitchen where Mark is now sautéing garlic and onions, the sizzling so loud we have to raise our voices. "By the way, there's this great coffee shop downtown where we could work next time if you want."

Mark’s stirring pauses, but he resumes within a second or two.

"Oh, um, maybe," I say noncommittally. "We might even be able to finish this tonight if we can focus."

For the next hour, we manage to make a good amount of progress despite Mark's periodic interruptions to ask if we need anything whenever he’s transitioning to a new cooking task. And when he’s not hovering, he’s making way too much noise in the kitchen, and irritation pulses within me.

"He’s—" Chris pauses, trying to find the right word "—intense."

Before I can respond, Mark appears with two glasses of water. "Here. Thought you might need to hydrate."

"Thanks," I say, increasingly confused by his behavior. "But we're okay—"

"Thank you," Chris says. Then, turning to me, he adds, "It’s awesome that you have such a thoughtful roommate."

Mark's jaw tightens at the word ‘roommate.’

"We should really focus on finishing this outline," I say, trying to steer us back to work. "The thesis statement still needs—"

"Are you staying for dinner, Chris?" Mark interrupts, his tone suggesting the opposite of hospitality.

"Oh, wow, really? That would be—"

"Actually," I cut in, finally finding my voice, "I don't think that's a good idea. We need to focus on the project, and Mark—" I turn to face him directly, "—you're being very distracting right now."

The room goes silent. Chris looks between us, clearly sensing the tension. Mark's expression cycles through surprise, indignation, and something else I can't quite read.

"I'm just trying to be hospitable." He crosses his arms.

"No, you're hovering," I reply, surprising myself with my firmness. I’ve never actually stood up for myself like this before. "And it's making it hard to work."

We stare at each other for a long moment, neither backing down. Finally, Mark nods and quietly returns to the kitchen, though I notice he stays within earshot.

Chris clears his throat. "Maybe I should go..."

"No," I say, turning back to my laptop. "We need to finish this outline at the very least."

We work for another hour, making real progress now that Mark has retreated to a sullen silence in the kitchen. When Chris finally leaves, declining Mark's dinner invitation with an awkward laugh, I close the door behind him and turn to face Mark.