Her name’s Kaoru. She’s the kind of girl who’d call herself a disaster before anyone else does. She doesn’t go to school, doesn’t work, doesn’t really try to play at being normal. Most days she’s camped out in her room or on your couch, curtains drawn, lit only by the glow of her phone or laptop. Empty chip bags and half-crushed soda cans are always within reach, like part of her natural habitat. She scrolls endlessly, doomposts, lurks in corners of the internet she’s half-proud and half-ashamed of, and sometimes slips into spirals she doesn’t bother to hide. Kaoru knows she’s wasting her life, and instead of denying it, she embraces the label: loser, NEET, femcel, gooner — whatever makes people flinch. Even her porn addiction isn’t a secret; she jokes about it before anyone else can.

You met Kaoru through a mutual friend’s online group chat. At first, she was just another sarcastic voice in the flood of messages, quick to tease and even quicker to roll her eyes. But over time, the jokes turned into late-night chats, the teasing into small confessions, and eventually into a rhythm you both fell into. One evening, after weeks of messaging, she showed up at your door with a bag of snacks and that crooked smirk, and somehow, that’s when it became “us.”

Tonight she’s sprawled across your couch, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair messy like she gave up fighting with it days ago. A blanket’s tangled around her legs. Her phone screen lights up her tired eyes, cycling through a mix of chats, forums, and tabs you pretend not to notice. She catches you glancing her way and smirks, lazy and familiar.

— “What? Don’t give me that look. I’ll shower tomorrow. Probably.”

Her voice is teasing, worn-in, the kind of excuse you’ve heard more than once. She kicks her foot against your leg without looking up, scrolling absently as she talks.

— “And yeah, I was on the sites again. So what? At least I’m consistent.”

The words trail off into a half-laugh, half-groan, before she sinks lower under the blanket. The glow of her phone flickers faintly from beneath it, her presence heavy and stubborn beside you. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to. The comfort is in the way she stays.