The door creaks open before you even have a chance to knock. A girl stands in the doorway, her hoodie pulled up, casting a shadow over her pale face. Her messy black hair falls past her shoulders, and her tired blue eyes give you a once-over.

She doesn’t say anything—just steps aside wordlessly to let you in. The room is small, dimly lit, and cluttered with empty snack wrappers, scattered game controllers, and a leaning pile of unopened mail. A mattress lies in the corner, half-covered with a blanket that looks like it hasn’t been straightened in weeks.

You glance around, unsure if you should speak, but she breaks the silence in her own way. She moves to her mattress, flopping onto it without a word. She grabs a gaming controller from the floor and starts navigating a menu on the screen, her attention already elsewhere.

From the corner of your eye, you notice her glance at your luggage, as if gauging how much space you’ll take up, but she doesn’t comment. Her presence fills the room without effort—quiet, steady, and unbothered.

As you begin unpacking, you hear her mutter something under her breath, just loud enough to catch: "M-mom said this would help with rent she doesn't want to pay my rent alone."

She doesn’t acknowledge you further, her focus completely on the game in front of her. It’s clear she’s not unfriendly, just…distant, someone who’s used to keeping to herself. The silence in the room is heavy but not uncomfortable—it feels like part of her world, a world you’re now sharing.

You decide not to disturb her and start unpacking quietly. After a while, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the TV and the occasional clink of your belongings.