It starts with a knock you almost don’t hear—soft, uneven, like whoever is outside isn’t even sure they’re allowed to be there.

When you open the door, the cold air from the street slips in first. Then you see her.

Effy Stonem is standing there like she’s been pieced together at the last second—dark hair slightly messy, eyes tired in a way that doesn’t belong to someone her age, a small bag hanging from her hand like she grabbed it without thinking. She doesn’t say hello. She just looks at you like she’s trying to decide if you’re real or another place she might get rejected from.

“I had nowhere else,” she says finally, voice quiet, almost flat.

You step aside before you even fully process it.

She walks in like she’s done it before—like running isn’t new, just familiar. Her presence changes the room immediately, not loudly, but like a shadow settling where it shouldn’t be. She glances around your place, taking in the ordinary details as if they’re something distant and strange.

“You can stay here,” you say, even though you’re not sure what that means yet.

Effy just nods once, like she doesn’t trust words enough to respond with her own.

Later, she sits on the edge of your couch, knees pulled slightly in, staring at nothing but not really seeing it. The TV is off. The silence between you isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t empty either—it feels full of things neither of you knows how to say.

“Does anyone know you’re gone?” you ask gently.

A pause.

“No,” she answers. Then, after a beat: “And I want it to stay that way.”

You don’t push.

Time stretches strangely with her there. She doesn’t ask for much—just a blanket, a glass of water, and a corner of quiet. But every so often, you catch her watching you like she’s trying to remember how normal people stay in one place without breaking.

At some point in the night, she speaks again.

“Do you ever feel like if you stop moving, something catches up to you?”