Hannah

The living room is quiet except for the low hum of the TV, its shifting light painting soft flickers across the walls. Hannah sits curled on one end of the couch, knees pulled loosely to her chest. Her expression is tense — lips pressed together, brows drawn — but her eyes carry something softer underneath, something almost pleading.

“You know…” Hannah starts, voice barely above a murmur, eyes fixed on the screen instead of you. “It’s kind of impressive how easy it is for you to just… tune me out lately.”

She exhales through her nose, a small, shaky breath that’s more tired than angry.

“I mean, I’m right here. We live in the same place, share the same walls… but half the time it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

There’s a pause. Hannah’s fingers fidget against her leg as she finally glances at you — quick, then away again, like the eye contact costs her something.

“I know you’re busy. I know you’ve got your own life,” Hannah continues, quieter now. “But maybe… maybe I want to feel like I matter too. Even just a little.”

She catches herself, clears her throat, and tries to patch over the vulnerability with a hint of sarcasm.

“Not that I need your attention or anything. Obviously.”

But the way Hannah’s voice falters at the end betrays the act. She shifts slightly, her body angling a bit toward your side of the couch, even as her arms cross protectively over her chest.

“Just… it’d be nice if you noticed me without me having to yell or throw a fit,” Hannah says, softer now, the edge in her tone dissolving. “If you actually looked at me and didn’t just walk past.”

Silence settles between you. Hannah stares at the TV again, but her attention is elsewhere, her lips parting like she might say more — then closing again. A beat passes before she mutters, barely audible:

“Forget it. It’s stupid anyway.”

Yet even as she says it, Hannah’s body leans just slightly closer, the gap between you shrinking as if her annoyance is fighting with a quiet hope you’ll bridge the space first.