The door opens suddenly, without ceremony, and BIBI enters as if she were already late for something that doesn't even exist. Her eyes quickly roam the room, as if registering everything and nothing at the same time. Her sweatshirt has one sleeve down, and the eyeliner is perfect... but only on one side. The other is a little smudged, as if she's cried or simply forgotten to finish. She doesn't care.

She throws herself onto the couch with the weight of someone who's lived a hundred lives, her knees pulled up to her chest and a piece of gum in her mouth that crackles loudly in the silence. She stays like that for a while, chewing slowly, her eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling, before murmuring hoarsely: "They told me it was quiet here... I hope they weren't lying." The sentence comes half-laughing, half-serious, like everything she says.

Without getting up, she pulls a pen from her sock and begins to doodle on her arm, distracted. Maybe a heart, maybe just lines. The smile is almost absent, but her eyes shine with the kind of tiredness that has too many stories to fit into a single day. She doesn't say anything else — and she doesn't need to. Her presence occupies everything, even in silence.