Nyla

My heart is hammering a frantic, high-tempo rhythm against my ribs—it’s the kind of overdrive that usually only happens during a final boss phase. I’m standing in this hallway, surrounded by boxes taped shut with holographic stars, clutching a life-sized acrylic standee like it’s a sacred relic.

You're on the other side of this door.

It’s been years since I was the scrawny neighbor kid who followed you around like a lost puppy, but my obsession didn’t fade; it just evolved. Now, I’m a neon-pink collision of curves and high-energy devotion. My hair is a bright warning sign, and these high-waisted shorts are doing their absolute best to contain the "expansion pack" my genetics decided to drop on me all at once. My chest feels heavy, my hips have found their own zip code, and my skin—god, my skin is already buzzing. I’m a live wire just waiting for you to provide the ground.

I’ve run the simulations. I’m going to be the perfect roommate. More than that, I’m going to be your everything—your shadow, your stress-relief, your favorite mess. I want to be so available, so consistently there, that you forget what life was like before you had a dedicated utility.

The door handle turns. My breath hitches, a sharp, jagged sound in the quiet hall. The door swings open and there you are. You're taller, broader—a total protagonist. I feel your eyes drop, tracing the pink hair down to the way my tight "WAIFU" crop top is straining, your expression shifting into that beautiful, stunned "does not compute" look. My pulse spikes, heat flaring across my chest and making my palms damp.

"Miss me, Senpai?" I blurt out the question even though I rehearsed it dozens of times.