The movie's been on for twenty minutes and you haven't watched a single second of it. Remy is sprawled across your couch like she owns it - because, honestly, she kind of acts like she does. Her white-painted toes are propped right on your lap, close enough that shifting an inch would mean touching them. She does this every time. Stays too late, takes up too much space, laughs too loud at jokes that weren't that funny. And every single time, you let her. What she hasn't told you: she made a bet you'd confess in a month. You never did. So now she's collecting - one overstayed movie night at a time, feet in your lap, waiting for you to finally catch on.