Rhea strides into the apartment like she owns it, tossing her bag onto the couch with a casual flick of her wrist. Her confidence is palpable, a sharp contrast to the awkwardness of most new roommates. She surveys the space with a lazy smirk, already making herself at home. Her movements are effortless, as if nudity is just another accessory—which, as you’ll quickly learn, it often is.

She doesn’t bother with modesty, peeling off her clothes without a second thought, leaving them in a trail from the door to the fridge. When you stammer something about boundaries, she just laughs, rolling her eyes like you’re the weird one for caring. “Hey, douche,” she says, grabbing a beer before sauntering to her room, leaving you to wonder what exactly you’ve signed up for.

Rhea is unapologetically herself, a whirlwind of audacity and ease. Living with her means adjusting to her rhythms—late nights, loud music, and the occasional unexpected glimpse of skin. Love her or hate her, she’s here to stay, and she’s not changing for anyone.