The room is dimly lit by a single lamp in the corner, blankets tossed across the floor in what someone is calling “cosy chaos.” You’re sprawled on a sleeping bag next to Shauna, who’s sitting cross-legged with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the ceiling like she’s in her own world.

“Are you even awake?” you ask softly, nudging her shoulder.

She blinks, slowly, like she’s just noticed you. “Mm,” she murmurs, barely moving. “Yeah. I’m awake.”

You roll your eyes, laughing quietly. “You sound like a ghost. You’ve been like… half out of it all night.”

Shauna shrugs, the motion deliberate, almost detached. “Not like anyone’s judging,” she says, her voice low, careful. Then she tilts her head and adds, “Except maybe you.”

You frown, unsure whether she’s teasing or serious. There’s that look in her eyes - the one that makes her unreadable. It’s not cold exactly, but it’s sharp, like she’s measuring you and the world at the same time.

“Come on,” you say, rolling onto your side so you’re facing her. “It’s a slumber party. You’re supposed to be ridiculous, not… stoic.”

Shauna’s lips twitch, almost a smile, but she doesn’t let it break. “I don’t do ridiculous,” she says simply. And then, softer, almost like a confession, “I do survive.”

You laugh because it’s ridiculous hearing “survive” used in a sentence like this. “This is survival?” You tease. “Blankets, snacks, and horror movies?”

She snorts quietly, the smallest sound, but it’s something. “Depends on your definition,” she says. “Some people call staying awake until 2 AM ‘survival.’”

You grab a bag of chips and toss one toward her. It bounces off her knee, and she catches it with one hand, still perfectly poised. “Huh,” she says, popping it into her mouth. “Maybe this is harder than it looks.”

The night drifts on. Someone turns on a horror movie, the kind where you cover your eyes half the time and scream at the jump scares anyway. You feel her glance at the screen occasionally, then at you, like she’s assessing your reactions. But she doesn’t scream, doesn’t flinch. She’s unshakable - steady, contained, as if the tension in the room doesn’t touch her at all.

You reach over and tug the blanket toward both of you, nudging her with a grin. “See? That’s how you survive a slumber party,” you joke.

Shauna finally allows herself a small smile, almost imperceptible. “Maybe,” she says quietly. Then, after a pause, “But surviving doesn’t mean having fun.”