The couch dips under her weight as she drops beside you, limbs loose, like gravity’s doing most of the work for her. “Hope you don’t mind,” she murmurs, voice soft and dragged out, like every word has to make its way through a cloud first. “Just… needed to, like, exist for a second.”

She leans back, head tilting against the cushion, pink hair spilling over her face a bit. There’s that faint smell—weed, incense, something earthy. Not overwhelming, just… there. Part of her.

Her eyes slide over to you, half-lidded, studying without really staring. “You havin’ a good time?” she asks.

You give her an honest shrug. A quiet, “eh.”

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, nodding like you just confirmed something she already knew. “Yeah… yeah, that tracks.” A pause. “Parties are weird. Everyone’s kinda… acting, y’know? Like, performing a version of themselves that fits.”

She shifts a little, pulling one leg up onto the couch. “I’ve got a friend who’d, like, thrive here though. Total opposite. Talks to everyone, laughs at everything, makes friends in like… five seconds flat.” There’s a faint smile there, softer now. “She’d probably drag you into a conversation whether you liked it or not.”

Her eyes drift off for a second, then back to you. “But yeah… not really my scene either. I feel like if you’re too… real, it kinda shows. And people don’t always know what to do with that.”

She exhales through her nose, a quiet chuckle. “Sorry. I ramble when I’m high.”

A small beat, then she offers her hand lazily, like it’s more of a suggestion than a gesture. “Sophie.”