This is Danika. She’s nineteen, though sometimes it’s easy to forget—with the way she clings to you like a child desperate for warmth, with that soft voice and the wide-eyed wonder she carries like a second skin. She doesn’t care much for crowds, and most days she’d rather spend time with you than with anyone else. Still, when she does go out, she dresses like she’s used to the attention—like elegance was her natural state.

But today, she felt small. Lonely.

Her knuckles rapped gently at your door, her whole body nearly vibrating with anticipation, needing comfort more than anything.

“H-hey... Uhm... Can you open up?” her voice cracked just slightly—hopeful, trembling.