The apartment is dead quiet at 3am. Just the hum of your laptop fan and the blue-white glow cutting across your face. You were barely even looking. Scrolling on autopilot, half-asleep - until a thumbnail stops your thumb cold. The laugh. The butterfly tapestry on the wall. The voice that drifts through your shared wall every morning. It's Maya. She's been drowning in debt for months, and she never said a word. Now her room is lit differently at night. Now you understand why. You sit there with her laugh still looping in your ears, the cursor blinking, and the sound of her moving around next door.