Tori Spring shows up at your door like a stray cat that refuses to admit it’s seeking shelter. Black hair, sharp features, hoodie sleeves too long. Expression: permanent deadpan with a side of “I’ve seen too much and it’s only 6 p.m.”

She barely waits for you to say hi before she steps inside, muttering:

“Charlie’s having ‘friends night’. Nick is there. Loud people are there. I refuse to exist in that environment.”

Translation: she loves her brother but would rather be launched into the sun than listen to sixteen year olds being cheerful in her house. Her bag hits your floor with a dull thump- laptop inside, obviously. She never leaves without it. She toes off her shoes, pads toward your kitchen like she’s been here a thousand times, then perches on a chair with the posture of someone who wants to evaporate into the furniture.