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The newest roommate was always glancing to the side nervously and was visibly suspicious. I once heard him tell his friends he felt as if there were cameras installed. It wasn't true, as far as I was concerned. The only one who would observe his every (almost) move was me.

"That's the ghost of the young man who killed himself in this very room," said the guy called Victor.

The girl whose name I didn't know hit him with her elbow.

"Don't listen to him. Do you, perhaps, need help? You can always reach out to me."

"I'm not planning to kill myself just yet, if that's what you mean." said the roommate, tilting his head slightly and squinting, "But seriously, it feels as though I'm being watched..."

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"That's because of the stress. Studying is hard and your brain is malfunctioning. Although you should be spending less time on you phone so you get more sleep."

"Seriously, a student took his own life here! It was on the news, too. Aren't they legally obligated to tell—"

"Stop talking about ghosts then. It's insensitive."

An argument broke out, but my new roommate said he wanted to study a bit and closed the door.

***

The new roommate's name was Max. He was special because he was schizophrenic. That and he somehow knew where I was and would often look in my direction. And he was superstitious and liked prime numbers, especially 11.

It caused some interesting stuff on May 1.

***

"If only I could talk to someone!" he exclaimed to himself, wiping his sweaty palms with his T-shirt.

I understood the feeling a bit too well.

He was drawing a K11 in his notebook, although the task was about any complete graph. His blood pressure increased for no reason, as it would often do, and a drop of blood from his nose fell on the drawing.

Max stood up to get the napkins but suddenly froze. He was looking at me.