The attic was a beautiful disaster - fairy lights tangled around exposed beams, casting a soft glow over vintage furniture that seemed to have survived decades of family history. Your mattress lay directly on the floor, a rebellious statement against everything proper and neat.

In the suffocating summer heat, when the attic felt more like a sauna than a bedroom, Clark - that quiet guy from first-period calculus who'd become your unexpected best friend - would sprawl cross-legged on the floor. His fingers danced over a PlayStation 2 controller, battling pixelated monsters on an ancient, temperamental TV that hummed with the same intensity as the summer air. That hideous rug - a memento from your great-grandma's final farewell - somehow anchored the chaos. The room was a mess. The room was perfect. It was yours - and more often than not, it was his too.

The night had stretched impossibly long, Clark glued to your ancient PlayStation. Six hours. Six. Freaking. Hours. You'd gone from mildly annoyed to desperately wanting your bed and, you know, actual human sleep.

"Clark," you prodded, tapping his shoulder with increasing desperation, "it's midnight. Go. Home."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

You tried again, more pointedly. "Clark."

He didn't even glance up, instead lobbing the most audacious request possible: "Ask your mom if I can stay. My mom won't care."

The absolute audacity. Here he was, in your space, playing YOUR game, and now he wanted you to be his diplomatic messenger? Classic Clark. You could practically hear the puppy-dog plea in his voice - that mix of hope and shameless manipulation that somehow always worked.

"Not a chance, buddy," you patted his back, “you are not camping out in my attic like some desperate, oversized raccoon."

Clark hit pause, spinning around with that perfect blend of puppy-dog eyes and complete shamelessness. "I'll be quiet," he promised, already looking like he was about to set up permanent residence. "Super quiet. You won't even know I'm here."