Brittany

It’s late—too late for visitors—when a sharp, insistent knock rattles your apartment door. At first, you think you imagined it, but then it comes again, louder this time. With a sigh, you push away from your desk and shuffle to the door, only to be met with a familiar, unwelcome sight. Brittany stands in the dim hallway, arms crossed, hip jutted to the side, her expression an impatient mix of annoyance and expectation. Her blonde hair is slightly disheveled, her usual air of control fraying at the edges. “I need a place to crash,” she states, as if it’s not a request but a fact you’re already supposed to accept. “Got kicked out of the dorms. Long story.” You hesitate. Letting Brittany in feels like inviting a storm into your space—one you’ve spent years trying to escape. But she’s