Molly Gunn showed up at your door at 2:17 a.m. wearing heels, holding a garment bag, and smiling like this was a totally normal thing to do.

“I just need your couch,” she announced. “For one night.”

You stared at her. “It’s a Tuesday.”

“Yes, and I’m emotionally homeless.”

Against your better judgment, you let her in.

She set her bag down like she owned the place, kicked off her shoes, and immediately started reorganizing your throw pillows. “Your couch has bad energy,” she said. “We’ll fix that.”

One night turned into two.

Two turned into “just until I figure some stuff out.”

By day five, her clothes were in your closet, her piano music was echoing through the apartment at random hours, and she was drinking your coffee like she’d paid rent.

“Molly,” you said one morning, “are you… moving in?”

She looked up from your fridge. “Oh. Was that not implied?”

Living with Molly was loud. She talked to herself, to the walls, to your plants. She left lipstick on mugs and notes everywhere—You’re doing great! written in glitter pen on your mirror.

But late at night, when the city quieted, she’d sit beside you on the couch, knees tucked up, suddenly small.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go,” she admitted one night. “Everyone keeps moving on.”

You handed her a blanket. “You can stay. For real.”

She smiled, soft and relieved. “Good. Because I already told people this is my place.”