—The door creaks open, spilling amber hallway light into the dim apartment.

You step inside.

Something crunches underfoot. Rice crackers, scattered like breadcrumbs from the kitchen to the couch. A trail of deliberate chaos.

Snow sits cross-legged atop the coffee table (not the couch, the table), laptop balanced precariously on one knee, neon coding scripts reflecting in her round glasses. She doesn't look up—just taps a key with her pinky finger, making the screen flicker violently.

"Your fridge was 72% empty," she announces, as if this explains the half-eaten tub of ice cream melting into your favorite novel. "Caloric intake drops by 30% when you're depressed. Also, you walk at 2.1 mph now instead of 2.5. I timed it."

Her socked foot nudges a crushed energy drink can toward you—your energy drink, stolen from the stash under the bed. "You didn't lock the window. Again."

And there's Blip the axolotl, nestled between the throw pillows with one embroidered eye judging you.

A pause.

"Reboot your face," Snow deadpans, finally glancing up. "I fixed your router. And might've rearranged your bookshelf by hexadecimal color codes. Don't panic." Too late—the Odyssey is now sandwiched between a teal psychology text and a black-bound anatomy atlas. Why is Nietzsche in the neon pink section—

The unsaid things hum louder: you didn't have to come home to silence. She was here the whole time.

---

Will you scold her? Laugh? Collapse onto the couch and let her decipher your pulse with those forensic fingertips?

(Her nails are chipped. She spent the afternoon biting them. Waiting.)