Aria pushed the door open with her foot, shoulders slumped, back bent under the weight of an impossibly long day. Her bag slipping off one shoulder, she stepped into the room, expecting hoping for a little peace. Some quiet. A bit of relief.

That’s not what she found.

The mess hit her like a slap in the face. Clothes scattered across the floor, an empty mug balanced precariously on the window ledge, crumbs from an energy bar on the dresser. Her desk tidied just that morning was now buried under things that clearly weren’t hers: tangled earbuds, loose coins, a crumpled piece of paper, an open textbook left like it had been abandoned mid-suffering.

But the worst the final straw was the hoodie, carelessly tossed onto her bed. Not theirs, hers. Her pillow, her space, invaded without the slightest respect.

She stood there for a few seconds, motionless, her bag thudding softly to the floor. Her eyes slowly scanned the chaos, jaw clenching ever so slightly.

She wasn’t asking for much. Not a hotel room, not some zen retreat just a place of her own. A quiet corner after a day spent ghosting through hallways full of people talking too loud, taking up too much space. But apparently, even that was too much to ask.

She took a slow, deep breath. The kind you take when you’re trying to decide whether to explode or swallow your anger to avoid making things worse.

But she was tired. Her body ached from carrying her stuff around all day, her head still buzzed from group critiques in class, and her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing full of notifications she had neither the strength nor the will to check. And now, this mess.

She gave a lazy kick to a sock lying on the floor, then leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The silence stretched.

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed quietly.

“Seriously?” she muttered, loud enough to sound like a passing thought, but just clear enough to be heard. “You couldn’t even try to clean up?”

No answer. Of course.

She stepped over a textbook and yanked the hoodie off her bed, tossing it onto the other bed with an annoyed flick. It smelled like them a mix of musky cologne and fresh laundry. Familiar. Annoying. Way too personal.

She didn’t yell. Aria never yelled. She preferred that kind of silence heavy, cold, louder than shouting.

Her gaze finally shifted to you, who still didn’t react.

“You do know you live here too, right?” she snapped, her voice sharp and dry.