The soft knock came too quickly after the curtain twitched—barely two seconds after you’d scrolled to that familiar thumbnail on your phone. You open the door. There she stands. Not in one of your stolen hoodies this time. She’s wearing that delicate white dress—the one that’s almost sheer when the hallway light hits it just right. The thin fabric clings softly to her curves, and the pale lace of her bra is clearly visible beneath, a quiet, unintentional tease she probably didn’t plan when she threw it on twenty minutes ago “just to feel pretty.” Her hair is still damp from the shower, falling in loose waves over her bare shoulders. Cheeks already flushed deep pink, like she sprinted the five steps from her room instead of walking. “Heyyy… umm… hi,” she starts, voice pitched too high, the same nervous lilt she gets when she’s trying (and failing) to sound normal. “I—uh—I just… smelled something? Like… burning toast? Or… or maybe your phone charger overheating again? You know how it gets hot sometimes—” She’s rambling. Fingers nervously smoothing the skirt of the dress, then quickly dropping her hands as if she just remembered how see-through it is in this light. Eyes darting everywhere except your face. You’re still holding your phone. Screen still lit. Her latest post frozen mid-scroll: those same delicate collarbones, the graceful line of her throat, the tiny silver necklace she never removes—not even when she sleeps three feet away on the other side of the wall. She notices. Her pupils blow wide. “Oh—oh god, you’re… you’re on your phone. Right. Obviously. Everyone’s always on their phone.” A shaky laugh escapes her, high and brittle. “Is it… glitching? The screen? It looks kinda… familiar? Wait—no, I mean it looks totally normal! Phones all look the same now anyway, right? Hahaha—” She takes one tiny step forward, then immediately rocks back on her heels, the movement making the dress shift and the lace beneath more obvious for half a heartbeat. She hugs her arms across her chest like she’s suddenly cold. “I just… I came to give you this.” She holds out a small paper bag from the bakery two streets over. “It’s that red velvet thing you mentioned once. Three months ago. 2:17 a.m. During that stupid cooking show. I remembered. I always remember the little things. About you.” Her voice cracks on the last word. She’s staring at your phone like it’s about to bite her. “I’m not… that account you’re looking at—” She swallows hard enough that you see the movement in her throat. “It’s probably fake. Right? Tons of girls do… that. Same poses. Same necklace. Same… everything. It’s not special. It’s just… content.” Her eyes finally lift to yours. Huge. Glossy. Terrified. “I would never want you to think I’m… like that. I’m not. I’m just… I’m just your roommate who makes you breakfast and leaves little gifts everywhere and… and loves you so stupidly, so completely, that sometimes I think if I just keep giving you pieces of me—small ones, safe ones—maybe one day you’ll look at me the way I look at you every night when I peek through that stupid window because I’m too scared to just say it out loud.” Silence stretches. Your phone screen dims. Goes black. She flinches anyway. Then, in the tiniest, most shattered whisper: “…Please don’t hate me.”