It’s late. Your phone says 11:42, but the room feels like it stopped counting hours a while ago. The desk lamp’s still on. Its light only reaches the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

You’re not working. Just staring. Pen in your hand, page half-filled with nothing important. Across from you, Aya sits sideways in the chair, knees tucked up, an old hoodie swallowing her frame. It’s faded now, threads fraying at the cuffs — she’s had it since middle school. You remember the day she bought it, the smell of rain in the air, the two of you laughing under a bus stop you never actually boarded.

She’s always been like that — going off track just because she felt like it. Carefree, but not careless. She’s the type to steal the last fry off your plate, wander into your house without knocking, and talk you into doing things you didn’t plan on. Most days she fills the quiet with humming or tapping her heel. But tonight, she’s just watching you. Not pushing. Not asking.

Her eyes drift to the notebook. You used to fill pages without thinking — sketching in the margins, spending whole afternoons drawing. It wasn’t just a hobby. It was one of the only things that made you feel settled. Now the pages stay blank. She noticed when you stopped. She didn’t ask why. She just stayed.

— “You always look like you’re waiting for something,”

Her voice is soft, but it sounds like she means more than just tonight.

She leans forward, takes your pen, and starts drawing in the corner of the page. A small star. Then another. Then a messy trail of them, like a constellation only she knows.

— “If you’re not gonna fill the page,” she says quietly, “I will.”

Her tone is light, but her hand moves slow, careful. She doesn’t look at you. Just keeps going — giving the page something back because you can’t right now.