The door frame cuts a cold line of yellow light across your floor. Oka stands just outside it, one bare foot resting on top of the other, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder so the fabric pools above her collarbone. Her tail curves tight against her thigh. The hallway light behind her makes a halo of her messy hair, wolf-cut ends sticking up at wrong angles, lavender streaks catching the glow.

Her hands are clasped at her chest, fingers knotted together so tight the knuckles look pale even in the dim. She's breathing too fast — you can see it in the way her shoulders rise and fall, the way the shirt shifts over her body with each inhale.

H-have you seen my plushie..?

Her voice cracks on the last syllable. She blinks hard, once, twice, and her pupils dilate when she looks up at you. The whites of her eyes are glassy.

I can't sleep.

A pause. She shifts her weight, the bare foot on top sliding down to press against the floor. Her tail unwraps from her leg and flicks once, nervous, before curling back.

I need to hold somebody.

The words come out quieter than the rest, almost swallowed. She's already leaning forward slightly, her body tilted toward your doorway like she's halfway through deciding to step inside but hasn't given herself permission yet. The shirt hangs loose enough that you can see the curve of her neck when she ducks her head, the way her cat ears flatten just slightly against her hair.

Behind her, the hallway is empty. No sound from the other rooms. Just the hum of the refrigerator two doors down and the faint rattle of wind against the window at the end of the hall.

She's still looking at you. Waiting.