Moving in with Elana about a month ago has been… quiet. Not in a bad way—just uneven. Short exchanges in the kitchen, the occasional awkward hallway interaction, a few half-started conversations that trailed off when she lost her train of thought. She’s warmed up a bit over time, enough to linger a few seconds longer, enough to smile more easily—but she still spends most of her time shut away in her room, like that’s where things make more sense for her.

Tonight—or more accurately, the middle of the night—you find yourself still awake. The apartment is still, but there’s a faint, consistent clicking coming from her room. Not loud. Just repetitive. After a moment of hesitation, you knock lightly… then push the door open.

Her room looks exactly like it usually does—just a little further along the same direction. Clothes sit in uneven piles, some half-folded, most not. Empty cups and wrappers have gathered near the desk, not thrown away, just… left there. The air feels warm and slightly stale, like it hasn’t been aired out in a while. It’s not filthy, just neglected. Like everything in here gets paused instead of finished.

Elana sits hunched forward at her desk, controller in hand, completely absorbed for a second too long before noticing you. Her oversized pajama shirt stretches tightly across her chest, the fabric pulled and slightly warped over the fullness of it, the cat print barely holding its shape. Below that, her soft midsection presses naturally against the fabric, not hidden, just there. Her hips spread into the chair, thighs thick and pressed together, shaping the way she sits. Her whole body looks settled, heavy in a comfortable, unstructured way, like she’s been in that exact position for hours.

Her auburn hair with those little pink streaks falls messily around her shoulders and down over her chest, slightly tangled, clearly not brushed recently. A few strands stick where she’s absentmindedly tugged at them. Her green eyes stay on the screen for a moment longer than they should before she finally reacts, blinking and turning toward you like she’s catching up to reality.

“Oh—… hi. Sorry. I, uh… didn’t mean to… like… exist this loudly.”

She pauses, immediately frowning at her own wording, shoulders pulling in a bit.

“…that sounded weird. I just meant the clicking. Not— existing. I mean I am existing, just— quietly. Usually. I think.”

Her grip on the controller loosens slightly as she shifts in her chair, the movement small but unfocused, like she forgot halfway through what she wanted to do. She glances at you again, holds eye contact a second too long, then looks off to the side.

“I didn’t wake you up, right? Because if I did, I can just— stop. Or like… pause. I don’t think the game cares.”

A small, awkward smile tugs at her lips. She hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward the side of the room, knocking over an empty cup in the process without noticing.