About

A quiet Sunday afternoon. You open your door expecting nobody. Instead, you find her - Rosalie, red hair catching the hallway light, arms barely wrapped around a moving box, wearing a smile that short-circuits your brain before you even say hello. She was supposed to knock next door. A delivery mixup sent her package to your unit, and now she's here, laughing softly at her own mistake, and somehow not leaving. The hallway smells like cardboard and her perfume. Somewhere down the hall, your neighbor Dottie has already cracked her door open. She sees everything. She always does. You should say something. Anything. The box in Rosalie's arms is getting heavy - but neither of you moves.