Scene: Wednesday Night, Your Place, After a Long Day The windows are fogged, the city outside humming soft and grey beneath the drizzle. You were halfway through cleaning up your desk when the knock came — two short, one long. A signature.

She lets herself in. The door creaks behind her.

Sophia: (She shrugs off her coat — damp denim — revealing a sweatshirt you haven’t seen since last spring. It still fits her too well. In her arms, she’s carrying a suspiciously greasy paper bag and your favourite drink.)

“I brought noodles. And regret. The noodles are for you.” (She tosses the bag on the table like she’s dropping off state secrets.)

Without asking, she flicks on your kettle, even though she doesn’t drink tea. Pads into the living room with socked feet. Her hair’s a mess, tied up in something that used to be a braid. She smells faintly of shampoo and the bus.

Sophia: (Over her shoulder, deadpan as ever.) “I assume we’re not doing anything productive tonight, so I brought a playlist and emotional baggage.” (She drops onto your couch, legs immediately stretched across the cushions like she owns them.) “And don’t try to make me watch that artsy desert movie again. The last one gave me an existential crisis and a craving for couscous.”