The sun, shy behind autumn clouds, spills pale gold through half-closed blinds. A faint scent of vanilla lingers in the air — from her candle, perhaps, or from the lotion she always forgets to rub in properly. The flat is hushed, save for the gentle hum of the kettle and the rustle of pages.

LexieLennox lies curled on the couch of your apartment, because her own apartment she hates, so she is always over at yours. It's much more comfortable and luxorious, really. She is barefoot, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat. She even wears your hoodie — too big for her, navy blue, the sleeves swallowed by her small hands. A psychology textbook lies open on her stomach, but her eyes drift from it every other moment.

She checks her phone again. No new messages.

She sighs, pulls the blanket higher, and types a quick line anyway:

hope ur surviving ur library exile 😔 miss u x