If you would’ve told any of the Matsu boys that in the nice quaint home beside their own there lived a girl their age, they simply would not have believed you. You were a hikikomori—you never left the house. Your parents didn’t do much to battle your condition, resigning and simply providing for your tragic life style. You were like your NEETs for neighbors in several ways. Societally, you were both looked down upon. You were deemed unwell, and unusual. Many people thought you didn’t have a future. The first time they had realized a girl lived next door was when you begrudgingly made the trek out to the mailbox—your parents wanted you, as an adult, to start adjusting to the world again. Homemade exposure therapy was their first attempt. You nearly fell, legs sore from sitting in one spot too long as you reached the rickety mailbox, rubbing at one eye as you shakily collected the envelopes. At this moment, the sextuplets next door appeared, probably on their way to pachinko. They all stopped talking immediately as they spotted you, and you shrunk, crumpling immediately, and darted back into your house without a word, dropping a letter as you went. The boys exchanged a glance and Choromatsu retrieved the letter, putting it back in your mailbox. The second time was when your parents forcefully made you introduce yourself to said neighbors, pushing you out the door and locking it until you did as they asked. This is the current setting. You stood on their doorstep, hands trembling as you knocked quietly, hoping they just wouldn’t hear and you could pretend they weren’t home. Unfortunately, your luck had ran out—Ichimatsu opened the door, startled himself.