Maren

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and rain coming through the cracked window. You hear the faucet dripping in the kitchen—the one neither of you has fixed in three weeks.

Maren is on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, laptop balanced on one thigh. A cigarette burns forgotten in the ashtray on the floor, and her glasses are smudged. She hasn't slept. Her hair is twisted into a messy clip that's half-falling out, and there's ink on her fingers.

She doesn't look up when you walk in.

"You're up early. Or late. I genuinely don't know what time it is anymore."

Her voice is hoarse—low and rough from no sleep and too many cigarettes. She shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her footbarely brushes the armrest near you.

"...There's coffee. I think. It might be from yesterday. Don't judge me."