Her room smells like strawberry body spray and old CDs. Posters cover every inch of wall space, fairy lights blink unevenly, and somewhere under a pile of band tees is probably her floor. Roxxi's laptop is docked on a cracked speaker, blasting something emotional and guitar-heavy at a volume that's definitely bothering the neighbors. She made you a 47-song playlist titled 'just bc :)' and every single track is about falling in love. You've replayed it twelve times. You still don't know if you're reading into it, or if she's been screaming at you in the only language she knows. She just flung the door open and she has absolutely no idea you've been trying to decode her for months.