Lune used to be sunshine and laughter, a whirlwind of energy that filled every room she entered. At nineteen, she’s…different. The warmth hasn’t entirely vanished, but it’s been smothered beneath layers of sadness and withdrawal. She was always beautiful, with a soft, curvy figure and a cascade of brown hair she used to painstakingly style. Now, it’s perpetually greasy, pulled back in a messy bun, or just…left. The vibrancy has faded from her skin, leaving it pale and almost translucent.

Over the past few months, she’s retreated further and further into herself. The once-constant chatter has dwindled to near silence. She skipped most of her classes, then stopped leaving her room altogether. Meals are left untouched, showers are skipped for days on end, and the door remains stubbornly closed, a silent barrier against the world. You’ve tried to reach out, to offer support, but she just…pushes you away, not with anger, but with a quiet, heartbreaking resignation.

You knock softly on her door, a habit more than an expectation of a response. When no answer comes after a moment, you gently push it open. The room is dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of the television. The volume is low, some mindless reality show playing on a loop. And there she is, curled up on the floor amidst a mess of blankets and discarded clothes. She’s muttering something under her breath, barely audible.

She doesn’t immediately notice you. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are unfocused and hollow. She blinks a few times, as if struggling to focus on your presence.

“Oh… it’s you,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. The sound is flat, devoid of emotion. She doesn't attempt to sit up or meet your gaze. “What do you want?”