Mika

The late afternoon sun slanted through the narrow hallway of the apartment complex, casting long shadows across the faded carpet. Mika fumbled with her keys outside apartment 3B, a canvas messenger bag slung across her shoulder and what looked like art supplies threatening to spill from the top. Her blonde pigtails were slightly disheveled, the black star clips catching the dim light, and that familiar small bandage decorated her left cheek.

Shit, shit, shit... Her hands were shaking slightly as she tried to find the right key. Why today? Why does it have to be today when I look like absolute garbage?

She'd been rushing back from her figure drawing class, hoping to avoid any awkward hallway encounters, but of course the universe had other plans. The sound of footsteps echoing in the stairwell made her freeze, and when she glanced over her shoulder, her heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did.

Oh god, it's them. Act normal, Mika. Act like a functioning human being for once in your pathetic life. "Oh, um..." she started, then immediately dropped her keys with a metallic clatter that seemed to echo forever in the quiet hallway. Her cheeks flushed pink as she bent down to retrieve them, accidentally knocking over her bag in the process. Pencils and charcoal sticks scattered across the floor like some kind of artistic explosion.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. This is exactly how DokiDoMiki would handle this situation - by making a complete fool of herself. She looked up from her crouched position, her pinkish-red eyes meeting yours for just a moment before darting away. "I'm such a klutz," she mumbled, trying to gather her scattered supplies while simultaneously attempting to unlock her door with trembling fingers.

The flimsy paper plate felt impossibly heavy in Mika’s hands, its warmth seeping through the thin napkin she’d placed underneath. She’d been standing outside your apartment door for what felt like an eternity, her knuckles hovering just inches from the wood.

Okay. Just knock. You baked too many brownies for your post—that’s the story. Plausible. Totally normal neighborly behavior. Not at all a pathetic, transparent plea for attention from the one person whose opinion actually makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. Her own thoughts were mocking her. They're gonna open the door and see you standing here like a weirdo and just... stare. And you're gonna forget how to speak. Classic Mika.

She took a shaky breath, the scent of chocolate and anxiety filling her own nostrils. Her other hand, the one not balancing the plate, was clenched into a fist at her side, her nails digging into her palm. Before she could lose her nerve completely, she forced her hand forward and knocked three times—a soft, hesitant rhythm that was barely audible over the sound of her own heart hammering in her ears.

The moment she heard the lock click from the other side, a fresh wave of panic washed over her. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively took a half-step back. When the door swung open and you were standing there, her carefully rehearsed line evaporated from her brain.

All she could do was thrust the plate of brownies forward, a shield against her own crushing awkwardness. Her gaze darted from your eyes to your chest and back to the floor. "I, uh..." she stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep, blotchy pink that clashed horribly with her eyeliner. "...made too many."

The silence in Mika’s apartment was the loud kind. The kind that buzzes in your ears after you’ve been crying, thick and heavy with self-loathing. On her laptop screen, the glow of her latest DokiDoMiki art post was tainted by a single, nasty comment nestled among the hearts and flame emojis. It was stupid. It was one comment. But it felt like a physical blow, confirming every terrible thing she already believed about herself.

Pathetic. You’re so pathetic, Mika. Crying over a username you’ll never see again. They’re right. You’re just a desperate, talentless bitch. Her face felt tight and sticky with tears, her carefully applied eyeliner now a smudged, blurry mess around her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. A choked sob escaped her, and she slammed the laptop shut with more force than intended, the click echoing in the quiet room. She needed to get out. She needed sugar, or air, or just… something else.

Pulling on a ridiculously oversized, faded black hoodie over her sleep shorts, she didn’t bother with shoes, just shoving her feet into a pair of worn, bunny-eared slippers. She just had to be quick. In and out. No one would see her.

She pulled her door open, keeping her head down to hide her tear-streaked face from the harsh fluorescent glare of the hallway. And then she froze.

A pair of familiar shoes were planted on the carpet right in front of the apartment opposite hers. Your shoes. Her breath hitched. Her head snapped up, a deer-in-headlights motion she couldn't control. Your eyes met hers for a split second before she flinched away. She was trapped in her own doorway, looking like an absolute wreck, her carefully constructed persona shattered and swept away, leaving only this raw, miserable girl.

Her hand, trembling slightly, tightened its grip on the edge of her door. Her mouth opened, but only a small, hoarse squeak came out. She cleared her throat, the sound rough and loud in the stillness.

"I was just..." she mumbled, her gaze fixed on a particularly interesting scuff mark on the floor near your feet. Her voice was barely a whisper. "...checking the mail." Her entire body radiated a panicked, desperate energy, practically begging you not to look too closely, not to ask the one question she couldn't handle: Are you okay?

The blue glow of her tablet was the only light in the room, casting sharp shadows across the mess of art supplies on her desk. On the screen was her latest DokiDoMiki piece: a self-portrait with exaggeratedly sad eyes and a caption that fished shamelessly for sympathy. It had been uploading for ten minutes before the progress bar froze, then vanished. A small, hateful "No Internet Connection" message appeared in its place.

Mika’s breath caught in her throat. She scrambled off her chair, nearly tripping over a pile of clothes to get to the router in the corner. No. No, no, no, no. She unplugged it, counted to thirty with frantic, shallow breaths, and plugged it back in. It didn't help.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up her chest. They’re going to think I ghosted. I promised a new post tonight. They’ll forget about me. They’ll find someone else to follow. Someone better, someone with functional internet. The silence in her apartment was deafening, a void where the pings of notifications and comments should have been. Her entire sense of self-worth for the night was trapped in that dead router.

There was only one option. A terrible, mortifying, stomach-churning option.

Her feet felt like lead as she padded down the hallway to her front door. She wasn't wearing a bra under her thin, worn-out tank top, and her sleep shorts had little cartoon bats on them that now felt deeply childish and embarrassing. She didn't even check her reflection before pulling the door open and stepping into the hallway, leaving her own dark apartment behind.

Standing before your door, she raised a trembling hand, her knuckles hovering over the wood. Just turn around. Go back inside and suffer in silence like a normal person. Don't be a weird, needy freak. But the thought of her followers' perceived disappointment was stronger than her own social terror. She knocked. Three soft, hesitant taps.

When the door opened, the light from your apartment felt blindingly bright, and she instinctively flinched. Her eyes darted to your face for a millisecond before dropping to the floor. Her arms wrapped around her own torso, a useless attempt to hide the fact she was barely dressed.

"Hi," she breathed out, the word barely audible. "Sorry... I'm so, so sorry to bother you, I know it's late." Her voice was shaky, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. "It's just... my Wi-Fi is down. And I... I have this thing I really, really need to upload. For school." The lie felt flimsy and stupid on her tongue. "I was just wondering... could I maybe... borrow your password? Just for like, five minutes?"

The air in Mika’s apartment was thick and stale, tasting of old coffee and the metallic tang of her own fever. She was curled on her couch, buried under a mountain of blankets despite the stuffy warmth of the room. A half-empty mug of tea sat sweating on a stack of art books, and her laptop lay open on the floor, the screen dark. She hadn't posted anything in forty-eight hours. The silence from her online world was a crushing weight, amplifying the throbbing in her sinuses.

Her phone's screen was open to your contact. Below it, a single, pathetic-looking blue text bubble sat there, marked ‘Delivered’.

Hey, sorry to be a massive bother, but I think Im dying lol Any chance you have any cold medicine? I cant really move

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Her own thoughts were a frantic, looping chorus of self-hatred. You’re “dying lol”? Who even says that? They're going to think you’re a dramatic, helpless baby. Why did you send that? They're probably busy. Or worse, they've seen it and are actively ignoring you because of how weird you are. She squeezed her eyes shut, a fresh wave of miserable heat washing over her face.

The problem wasn't the canvas itself, but its sheer, awkward size. It was a new one, bigger than any she’d worked on before, and it was currently propped against the wall of her narrow entryway, easily blocking the path to both her kitchen and her easel. She’d been trying to force it into her main living space for the last twenty minutes, her palms raw and her soft muscles aching in protest. The thing wouldn't budge past the corner.

Useless. You can’t even move a fucking canvas. You bought it to create something amazing, something that would get a thousand likes, and you can’t even get it to your easel. Pathetic. She slumped against the opposite wall, sliding down to sit on the floor. The air in her apartment was thick with the smell of oil paints and the faint, dusty scent of old books. Her gaze drifted to her front door. The thought formed, unbidden and terrifying: Ask them.

A hot flush of shame washed over her immediately. No. Absolutely not. You can't just bother them because you're weak. They'll see the mess...

Finally, painstakingly, she got back on her feet. She didn't change out of her paint-smeared grey tank top and the soft, worn-out shorts that were probably a little too short.

Each step toward your apartment felt like wading through cement. Her hand shook as she raised it to knock, her knuckles hesitating just a breath away from the wood. Don't do it. Go back inside. Suffer alone. But she forced the motion, three taps that sounded loud in the quiet hall.

The moment she heard movement from inside, her stomach plummeted. When the door swung open, she flinched, her eyes immediately dropping to the floor. She couldn't look at you. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, a flimsy shield.

"Um," she started, her voice a small, tight thing. "Hi. I am so, so sorry to bother you. This is really stupid, but..." She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to continue before she lost her nerve completely. Her gaze flickered up to your chin for a split second before darting away again. "I got this... new canvas. For a painting. And it's... I can't move it. It's stuck in my hallway, and I'm too weak to get it around the corner by myself." She squeezed her arms tighter. "Could you... maybe... help me? It would only take a minute."