Fridge wars and quiet hours in shared communal spaces, what does go on in dorms?

There is a specific kind of tension that only exists in shared living spaces.  It is subtle and taped to a fridge in the form of a handwritten note. It lives in the gap between what is technically allowed and what is socially acceptable. It shows up when your milk disappears, when someone cooks fish at midnight or when a carefully worded “please clean up after yourself” with a smiley face appears overnight. 

In the university residences, these small moments accumulate into something bigger, a culture. Not the kind found through shared experiences of textbooks and lectures, but the everyday culture of cohabitation that is built on negotiation, frustration, humour and mainly, public notes. 

Take the fridge on the third floor of Athabasca Hall, for example. The communal fridge is not just an appliance; it’s a political warfront. Its ownership, etiquette and trust collide. Everyone knows the unspoken rules of labelling your food, don’t take what isn’t yours and definitely don’t leave things to rot. Yet, these rules are broken constantly.

A printed “Communal kitchen etiquette” poster on the fridge lays the official groundwork of being mindful of noise, managing smells and cleaning up, but it’s the notes layered over top that tell the real story. One reads bluntly: “Dear beer thief, fuck you.” Another counters, almost defensively, “Who tf keeps beer in a public fridge?” A third attempts to de-escalate: “My bad dude, no need to get angry :(.” The fridge becomes a message board, a debate forum and a battleground all at once. 

What’s striking isn’t just the conflict, it’s the tone. These notes oscillate between anger, sarcasm and reluctant empathy. They are raw, immediate and deeply human. Instead of addressing issues face-to-face. Residents turn to paper and pen, broadcasting their frustrations to an audience of strangers and neighbours. 

This reliance on passive communication isn’t limited to fridges. It extends into hallways, bathrooms and even the space between your doors. Recently, tortillas — yes, tortillas — became an unexpected medium for messaging. Someone went through the trouble of writing notes on tortillas and sliding them under doors. The absurdity of it is undeniable, but so is the message. In shared living spaces, some people will find creative ways to be heard. 

At first glance, these acts might seem childish or petty. But they reveal something deeper about the reality of shared living. Direct confrontation is hard. It requires vulnerability, confidence and the willingness to risk awkwardness. Writing a note, on the other hand, creates distance. It allows someone to express frustration without facing the immediate reaction of the person they are addressing. 

In a dorm environment, where residents are often strangers navigating independence for the first time, that distance can feel safer. 

But it comes at a cost. 

Passive-aggressive notes rarely solve the conflict; they just amplify it. A note accusing a “beer thief” doesn’t identify the solution; it just highlights the problem.  It invites defensiveness, sarcasm and retaliation, as seen in the responses that followed. Instead of fostering accountability, it creates a cycle of indirect communication, where no one takes responsibility, and everyone feels targeted. 

The same dynamic plays out with quiet hours. Officially, quiet hours exist to ensure that everyone has a chance to rest and study. Unofficially, they are another source of tension. What counts as “too loud”? Is it music through speakers, laughter in the hallway or the hum of late-night cooking?

When someone crosses that invisible line, the response is often indirect. A slammed door, a pointed look or inevitably a note. “Some of us have exams!!!” Scrawled on a whiteboard or sticky note on the wall. Again, the message is clear, but the method avoids direct interaction. 

There’s a pattern here. Shared living spaces operate on a combination of formal rules and informal enforcement. The university can provide guidelines for cleaning up after yourself and respecting quiet hours, but it can’t enforce the social contract that makes those rules meaningful. The responsibility falls to the residents, who must navigate it in real time. 

That’s where things get complicated. 

Because shared living is not just about rules, it’s about people. People with different habits, schedules and expectations. Someone might genuinely not realize that reheating leftovers at 1 a.m. can bother others. Someone else might assume that anything left in the communal fridge is fair game. These aren’t always acts of malice; they’re often misunderstandings. 

But misunderstandings, left unaddressed, can turn into resentment. 

The irony is that many of these conflicts could be resolved through simple conversation. A quick “Hey, could you keep it down after midnight?” or “Please don’t take my food” might feel uncomfortable at the moment, but it has the potential to prevent weeks of tension. Instead, the reliance on notes creates a layer of anonymity and ambiguity. 

Who wrote that note? Who is it directed at? Is it about me?

These questions linger, turning small issues into larger ones. 

At the same time, there’s something communal about these notes. They create a shared narrative of a kind of inside joke among residents. The tortilla notes, the fridge debates, the sarcastic replies all become stories people tell. Moments that define their experience of living in residence. 

In that sense, passive-aggressive communication is not just a symptom of conflict; it’s also a form of culture.

It reflects the awkward, transitional nature of university life. Students are learning how to live independently and how to coexist with others. They are experimenting, making mistakes and socially writing those mistakes on post-it notes. 

There’s also an element of performance. Notes are not just about solving a problem; they’re about being seen. They signal frustration, yes, but also desire for acknowledgement.” I’m here, this matters to me and I want someone to notice.”

In a crowded residence, where individuals can feel diluted, that desire makes sense. 

Still, there’s a question worth asking: what would shared living look like without notes?

It’s easy to imagine an ideal version where residents communicate openly, respect boundaries and take responsibility for their actions. But that version might be unrealistic. Conflict is inevitable when people share space. The goal isn’t to eliminate it, but to navigate it in a way that builds understanding rather than resentment. 

That might mean having more face-to-face conversations, even when they’re uncomfortable. It might mean recognizing that, behind trying, in their own way, to make their living space better. 

Until then, the notes will continue. 

They’ll appear on the fridges, walls and apparently, written and stapled on tortillas. They’ll be angry, sarcastic and sometimes surprisingly kind. They’ll remind us that shared living is messy and not just in terms of dishes and clutter but in the way people interact, communicate and coexist. 

Because at the end of the day, the reality of shared living spaces isn’t about perfectly following the rules. 

It’s about figuring out how to live with each other, even when someone steals your beer.