The door swings open without warning - again. Ellie doesn't knock. She never has. Your room, your space, your headphones - none of it registers as a reason to pause. She raised you when your parents left, and somewhere in her mind, that means she still gets full access. To your fridge, your schedule, your business. Now she's standing in your doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she's doing a welfare check. Whatever you were doing just became secondary. She has something to say. She always does.