She Found Out Her Transgender Roommate Was Getting His Back Blown Out By Her Boyfriend | HO!!!!

Sometimes when I pulled up late, I’d see his light on downstairs and—more than once—I’d catch the shadow of somebody sneaking through his window. Just slipping in. Quick. Like they didn’t want to walk through the front door where everyone could see.

And every time I’d think, not my business. Not my business. Not my business.

Looking back, I don’t know if I was minding my business or avoiding my own instincts.

So here’s what was going on in my life: I was talking to this guy—let’s call him Edward—and it wasn’t “just talking” in the casual sense. We’d been in that gray area for a while, arguing sometimes, making up, acting like we weren’t serious while he basically lived in my room. He didn’t have a key, but it felt like he did. He spent the night so often it got to the point where he’d let himself into the house, or one of my roommates would open the door for him, and he’d go straight upstairs to my room and wait for me to come home from work.

It became normal. Too normal.

And I didn’t like that he was comfortable like that, but I also liked being wanted. I liked coming home and not feeling alone. I liked that he’d text me, “I miss you,” and I’d believe it. I liked the idea that he chose my bed, my space, my life.

Then one particular night, we got into an argument. I was irritated, he was irritated, and I didn’t leave the door situation set up for him the way I sometimes did. I didn’t think he was going to come over after we’d been fighting. But while I was still on my way home from work, he hit me with: “I’m sleeping over today.”

And I remember thinking, of course you are.

“Cool,” I texted back, because I was too tired to debate. But I hadn’t left a door unlocked. I hadn’t arranged anything.

So I did what I always did: I texted the roommate who usually opened the door for him. “Hey, if you’re home, can you unlock the door for Edward?”

She texted back: “I’m not home.”

Great. Now I’m driving, it’s 3:00 a.m., and the only person who might be inside is my downstairs roommate—the one I barely talked to. But we all had each other’s numbers because we lived together.

So I texted him. “Hey, can you let my dude in? He’s going to come to the door. Can you open it?”

He replied fast: “Yeah, I got you. I got you.”

I was still about 45 minutes away. Edward was texting me, “I’m at the door,” and I said, “Okay, my roommate’s going to let you in.”

Everything sounded normal—until it didn’t.

About 10 minutes later, my phone buzzed again. It was my downstairs roommate.

“How do you know Edward?”

I stared at the screen like the letters might rearrange themselves into something less insane.

I texted back, “How do you know Edward?”

And then the next message hit me like a slap.

“I’ve been sleeping with Edward for over a year.”

I remember inhaling so sharply my chest hurt. I remember my foot pressing down on the gas like my body made the decision before my brain could argue with it. I remember looking at my speedometer and seeing a number that didn’t match the road I was on, and thinking, I am about to go home and lose my mind.

Because how do you get betrayed by two people at once without even knowing you were playing a game?

*At 3:00 a.m., truth doesn’t arrive gently—it kicks the door in and stands there like it pays rent.*

My brain tried to make it not real. I tried to logic it into a misunderstanding.

Maybe he’s lying. Maybe he’s mad at Edward. Maybe he’s trying to stir something up. Maybe he misunderstood who Edward was. Maybe Edward has a twin. Maybe I’m hallucinating from work exhaustion.

Then the anger landed.

Not just anger at Edward—anger at myself for letting him float through my life like he owned it. Anger at the fact that my downstairs roommate had apparently seen Edward in my house a hundred times and didn’t say a word until now. Anger at the way I’d ignored the weird signs, the sneaking through windows, the late-night energy that never felt fully explained.

I started texting friends with one hand and driving with the other, which I know is reckless, but I was already past “good decision-making.” My friends were like, “We’re pulling up. We’ll meet you at your place.”

I texted them back: “Turn all your lights off. I don’t want him to know y’all are outside. I want him to get spooked.”

And I didn’t say anything to Edward. Not a single accusation. Not a single “we need to talk.” Because the truth is, I wanted him calm. I wanted him comfortable. I wanted him sitting in my room thinking everything was normal while I figured out what I was walking into.

Edward must’ve sensed something, though, because he started texting more sweet than usual.

“I’m ready for you to come home.”

“I miss you.”

“I can’t wait.”

And I responded like a robot.

“Yeah.”

“Mm.”

“Okay.”

Dry. Short. Nothing he could grab onto.

Meanwhile my friends were coordinating like it was a mission. They lived around the corner, across the street, close enough to move fast. The plan in my head wasn’t even coherent, just layered with adrenaline: I’d go in first, get to my room, find the place Edward kept his gun—because yes, he kept one, and yes, I knew where—and move it so nothing could escalate into something irreversible. Then my friends could come in, and the confrontation could be messy but not deadly.

That was the plan.

A plan made by a person who didn’t want to be on the news.

When my friends pulled up, they cut their headlights the way I asked. Later they told me Edward was looking out the window, like he knew something was off. And I believe that, because people who live in lies develop a sixth sense for when the air changes.

I pulled into the lot, parked, and walked inside. The living room looked the same—couches, kitchen counter, the quiet hum of the refrigerator. No signs of chaos. Edward was upstairs.

My downstairs roommate was still downstairs.

My stomach turned anyway.

I climbed the steps and pushed into my room and there he was—Edward—standing like he’d been waiting, like he was about to complain about the argument from earlier, like he was about to act like nothing had happened.

And the moment I saw his face, I started throwing up.

Not cute gagging. Not dramatic. Real, full-body, get-it-out-of-me sickness. I leaned over and my body rejected the entire night like it was poison.

Edward jumped back, offended. “What’s your problem?” he snapped. “What’s wrong with you?”

Then he said something so cruel and stupid it still echoes in my head. “You must be pregnant, b—.”

I wiped my mouth and stared at him, blinking through tears. I could barely speak, but I forced the words out.

“You got something you want to tell me?”

He frowned like I was the crazy one. “What are you talking about?”

I asked again, slower, clearer. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”

He got hostile. “No. What you talking about, b—?”

And my anger, finally, found language.

“Edward,” I said, voice shaking, “you’ve been sleeping with my roommate downstairs.”

He froze for half a second, like his brain was calculating exits.

Then he threw his head back, laughed like I’d accused him of something impossible. “Bro, you got me messed up. What are you talking about?”

I stepped closer. “He told me. He told me.”

Edward’s eyes widened, and before I could even process it, he took off running downstairs—fast—like he could outrun consequences.

The yelling carried. My downstairs roommate must’ve heard the argument because the next thing I knew, he bailed—literally—through the downstairs window.

That window again.

The same window I’d seen strangers use like a secret door, the same window I’d pretended wasn’t my business. Now it wasn’t a mystery; it was an escape route.

Edward hit the bottom of the stairs and saw my friends in the living room.

And the entire scene snapped into a dangerous shape.

Edward started waving the gun around. My friend yelled, “Don’t put that in her face!”

Edward shouted back, frantic. “I never put my hands on her! I never hurt her!”

I stood there shaking, still nauseous, watching the room turn into something that could go left in a heartbeat. My friends were trying to keep it from escalating. Edward was trying to keep control. And I was thinking, I tried to remove that gun first. I tried. I tried. I tried.

We moved outside onto the front steps because the townhouse stairs were high and the air felt like it might cool down whatever was boiling. Edward was still waving the gun, and at one point it came too close to my face and I shoved it away on instinct.

“Stop putting that in my face!” I screamed.

Edward was spiraling now, yelling for the downstairs roommate. “Call him! Call him!”

I swallowed bile and pulled out my phone. “Okay,” I said. “Cool.”

I called.

When he answered, his voice was shaky. “I’m on the other side of the complex,” he said fast. “I’m not playing with that boy. That boy is crazy. He be shooting people.”

Edward snatched my phone out of my hand and started yelling into it. “So why you lying? When did I ever—” He started trying to argue the unarguable, talking over the truth like volume could erase it.

And I was still throwing up. Literally. I couldn’t even get on the phone to ask questions because my body was busy reacting to humiliation like it was a toxin.

By then it was around 6:00 a.m., and the neighborhood was waking up to us screaming like it was a reality show.

That’s when my downstairs roommate added the sentence that made the ground tilt even more.

“I got video,” he said.

Edward’s face changed. He grabbed me by the shoulders, trying to pull me close like closeness equals innocence. “You know I’d never do that,” he kept saying.

“Stop touching me,” I snapped, shoving him off. “Don’t touch me.”

I looked at my downstairs roommate. “Send it,” I said.

Edward shouted, “Yeah, send it! She know what my body look like!”

And the video was sent.

I watched it for about two seconds before my brain tried to shut down. It was him. There wasn’t room for doubt. I took the phone and threw it at Edward like the phone itself had betrayed me.

“That’s you,” I said, voice breaking into rage. “That’s you.”

Edward got louder, angrier, because I wasn’t letting him talk his way out. My downstairs roommate said he was calling police because he “wanted to come back home.” And in that moment, I was mad at everybody. All of them. My friends. My roommate. Edward. Myself.

Then the final twist inside the twist landed: my downstairs roommate said, “He even tried to sleep with me in your bed.”

I snapped. Not into violence—into disgust so complete it felt like my skin didn’t fit right.

“So you knew,” I shouted, staring at my downstairs roommate. “You been knew! And you waited to tell me until he tried to do it in my bed?”

At 6:00 a.m., police rolled up like they’d been summoned from the universe’s exhaustion. I stood outside in pajamas and anger, explaining the whole story while the officers’ faces did that professional thing where they try not to look shocked but you can see their minds doing backflips.

They looked at Edward. They looked at my roommate. They looked at me like, if people could just be honest, we wouldn’t be here.

And I remember thinking, yeah. If people could just be honest.

*The second you see proof, the argument stops being about “what happened” and becomes about “who you thought you were living with.”*

The next day I went straight to the leasing office. I was done playing house with secrets and chaos. I told them there was someone living there who had lied on their application and I didn’t feel safe. I told them the situation. They apologized and said they’d handle it and remove him.

But removing a roommate didn’t remove what I’d learned about Edward.

So I went to a clinic and got tested. My mom came with me, because I was too numb to do it alone. I got tested more than once that month because I didn’t trust timing, didn’t trust luck, didn’t trust anything. Sitting in those waiting rooms, I felt like my life had been turned into a cautionary tale.

Thank God everything came back fine.

Edward still had the nerve to text me afterward.

“Let me see your test results.”

I sent them, partly because I wanted him to stop talking to me, partly because I wanted him to have to look at the consequences of his choices.

He replied like he was proud of himself. “I told you I don’t have anything. I take antibiotics all the time.”

I stared at that message and felt my disgust turn into something quieter and sharper.

“How do you even sound?” I texted back. “Just shut up.”

Then I told him the truth I should’ve said the first time he disrespected me.

“I think it’s best if you leave me alone,” I wrote. “Because I’m not into that freaky stuff. I don’t have anything you want besides me, and I’m not giving any part of myself to you.”

I blocked him.

I tried to move on.

And I thought the story was over. I thought the downstairs window could finally just be a window again.

But life loves a sequel.

Because I started talking to another guy not long after. Nothing serious at first. Just conversation, flirting, that rebound energy where you’re trying to remind yourself you’re still desirable and the world isn’t only betrayal.

And then I noticed something that made my stomach tighten.

His car looked familiar.

Not in the “I’ve seen that model” way. In the “I’ve seen that exact car parked in front of my building” way.

I asked him casually, “Do you ever be out where I used to live?”

He said, “No. Me and my brother share a car. He be out there.”

I let it slide. For about five seconds.

Because I remembered a moment from back then, a moment I ignored because I was “minding my business.” My downstairs roommate had said one time, “I gotta go open the door for my friend,” and there had been a car outside—this car—parked like it belonged there. Someone had walked in. I hadn’t looked at his face. I’d walked upstairs. Not my business.

Then the new guy told me he didn’t really like girls posting him online. “I usually don’t let girls post me,” he said, “but I’m going to let you.”

I laughed, because I was done with men acting like visibility is a privilege. “If you’re with me,” I told him, “I can post you. Simple.”

So I posted a TikTok. Then another. Videos of us. Normal couple content, nothing deep.

Then I got a DM from an account with no followers, no profile photo, nothing.

“You just keep on sleeping with my guys,” it said.

I stared at it, confused, annoyed, ready to type back, who are you?

But before I replied, my brain did that thing it does when pieces start clicking. The familiar car. The campus townhouse. The downstairs window. The way people moved like they didn’t want to be seen. The way I’d ignored faces.

I screenshotted the DM and sent it to the new guy. “Yo,” I wrote, “what is this?”

He read it.

He didn’t respond.

I texted again. Nothing.

Then my messages stopped delivering.

He blocked me.

And that’s when I knew the answer before he ever admitted it: I wasn’t crazy. The car wasn’t familiar by accident. He wasn’t “my brother shares it” familiar. He was there. He had been there.

I texted him from another number like, I know you didn’t just block me. You think you slick?

Then I asked the question that felt like it had been chasing me all year.

“Are you on the same kind of timing too?” I wrote. “Be honest.”

Two days later he unblocked me and tried to play dumb. “What are you talking about?” he texted.

I reminded him I’d already told him the whole story about my roommate and Edward. I reminded him he’d listened to me tell it like it was entertainment.

And now he was connected to it.

He didn’t deny it the way a truthful person would. He denied it the way someone denies something they’re embarrassed to own.

I blocked him again. I felt sick of the whole campus, the whole social circle, the whole pattern. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I didn’t want to date anybody. I didn’t want to be a character in someone else’s secret life.

Then about a week later, he started blowing up my Instagram and Snapchat.

“I miss you,” he wrote. “Come on. Let’s talk.”

I replied once, because I wanted the door closed clearly.

“Did you forget why we stopped talking?” I typed. “It’s not because you cheated with some random girl. You cheated with a man.”

And I remember sitting there, phone glowing in my hand, thinking the same thought I’d had at 3:00 a.m. the night everything broke open:

Maybe the betrayal you’re looking for isn’t the one you expect.

This whole thing turned into a cautionary spiral: the boyfriend letting himself into my house, the roommate opening doors, the downstairs window acting like a secret hallway, the text that arrived 10 minutes after I asked someone to let Edward in, the video that ended every argument, the police showing up at 6:00 a.m. like even they couldn’t believe they were there for this, the clinic visits with my mom sitting beside me like a guardrail, the new guy’s familiar car, the fake-page DM, the way people hid behind blank profiles and half-truths.

And the object that kept coming back—quiet at first, then undeniable—was that downstairs window.

First, it was just something I saw in passing, a detail I dismissed because I didn’t want conflict. Then it became the route people used to keep secrets alive. And in the end, it was the symbol of the whole mess: the place where honesty should’ve walked in through the front door, but didn’t.

Because if you live your truth like you have to climb through a window at night, somebody eventually gets cut on the glass.

*Some stories don’t end with closure—they end with you realizing you have to stop handing people access to you when they won’t even tell you who they are.*