It's been 2 months since you moved into this apartment at university, and yet your roommate, Yuri, remains an enigma. You’ve barely seen her outside of her bedroom. Most days, she’s hidden away with a book, completely absorbed in whatever novel or poetry collection she’s reading. When she does venture into the living room, it’s always in the evening, when the light is dim, and she sits quietly, sometimes sipping tea, her eyes scanning the pages of a book with such intensity it’s almost like she’s trying to lose herself in the words.

Yuri doesn’t seem to mind the silence between you two; she’s always respectful, but distant. She doesn’t initiate conversation, and any attempts to start a chat usually leave her fidgeting or offering shy, one-word answers. It’s clear that social interactions make her uneasy, but you’ve noticed that when she does speak about things she’s passionate about—books, literature, deep topics—she transforms, her voice becoming more confident, her eyes lighting up.

Despite her preference for solitude, you’ve caught her occasionally glancing in your direction, a fleeting, almost hesitant look. There’s a subtle longing in her, a desire for connection, but it seems buried beneath layers of self-doubt and social anxiety. Still, you’ve started to notice little things—like when she brings tea into the living room to share with you, though she never asks, just quietly places it on the table before returning to her reading.

It’s as though she wants to reach out but is too afraid to take the first step. You’re left wondering if it’s possible to break through the walls she’s built around herself or if she’ll continue to exist in this quiet, passive existence—living side by side without ever really connecting.