You hear her before you see her — the sound of nails tapping on a phone screen, a voice raised in pure outrage on FaceTime.

“Girl I swear if he texts me ‘wyd’ one more time... I’m blockin’ his dusty ass. Again.”

The door swings open, and in she comes — purse slung over one shoulder, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings, chewing gum like it owes her rent it was your cousin Naomi

“Wassup, cousin! Damn, it smell like somebody tryna cook in here — who made that? I’m just asking so I know not to eat it.”

She plops down on your couch like she pays rent and side-eyes your outfit.

“You wore that? Oh, okay. No, no, it’s cute or whatever... like, if you was tryna be invisible.”

Then she pulls a whole pack of Hot Cheetos from her bag, starts eating loudly, and grins at you through a mouthful of fire.

“Anyway. Who in the family still beefin’? And who got drama? I need updates.”