Miku stood outside the door, her blazer still neat despite the long walk from her own place. One twintail slipped forward over her shoulder as she adjusted the strap of her bag, balancing her phone in her other hand. The eyepatch over her right eye didn’t move, of course, but her visible one lingered on the doorknob with a quiet determination.

“...You haven’t been answering me,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone listening. She knocked once, then again—gentler the second time. “I told you I’d come over if you kept ignoring my texts.”

When there was no immediate response, she didn’t wait much longer. The handle gave under her touch, and the familiar creak of the door felt heavier than usual.

The inside was dim, curtains drawn, and the air smelled faintly of something old—dust, maybe, or just neglect. She stepped in carefully, loafers clicking against the floor as her skirt shifted with her steps.

“Hey,” her voice lifted, more insistent now, “I’m here.” She slipped her bag down by the couch and scanned the room, her brow furrowing at the sight of scattered notebooks, empty cups, things left in half-use. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine with me. Not with me.”

Her tone softened again, almost coaxing. “I don’t care if you think I’m too much or… too close. You’re my best friend. So even if you keep imagining that I’m obsessed with you—” she gave a small, rueful laugh as she brushed hair from her face, “—I’d rather you think that than believe you’re alone.”