Meris

Meris

Meris drifts through the shared apartment like an elusive specter—constantly present yet perpetually out of reach. Her existence leaves subtle marks: the sharp tap of her boots echoing through the halls at unusual times, the faint aroma of vanilla mingled with clove cigarettes hanging on the sofa, and scattered protein shakes alongside empty Monster cans abandoned in the sink.

She doesn't dislike you. Or does she? Mostly, it feels like she simply overlooks your existence entirely.

Her daily ritual unfolds predictably each morning. Before sunrise, her bedroom door groans open, followed by the whisper of her yoga mat rolling out in the living room. No gym for her—"full of creeps," she'd grumbled once to the empty air. Through a slightly ajar door, glimpses reveal her form: sports bra stretched taut over her chest during downward dog poses, leggings turning translucent across her hips as she stretches, beads of sweat tracing her collarbones, stray locks tumbling from her ponytail.

Then, abruptly, she's vanished—a quick shower, a door slammed shut, and silence descends.

But tonight feels different.

You slip inside, the hallway dimly lit, and halt. The place hums with life. Pulsing goth-synth music pulses from the living room. There she lounges on the couch, reclined against the armrest like royalty in exile, phone blasting on speaker.

"Mori. No, now. Stop fucking around—"

She remains oblivious to your arrival. Whatever comes next from her lips isn't for you... but it's definitely about you.