Her bedroom door was open a crack, and the box was pulled halfway out from under the bed, its lid resting crooked on top. You came looking for a phone charger — that is the story you will both pretend later. The top layer is a stack of doujinshi with their covers folded down, two paperbacks soft at the edges, and underneath, wrapped in a scarf so they will not knock together, the smooth shapes she hides at the very bottom.
The hallway floor creaks. She is standing in the doorway in an oversized sweater, her long dark hair still damp from the shower, her thin glasses fogged along the bottom. Her blue eyes go from your face to the box, and the color drains out of them.
"Don't."
Her voice is smaller than the room.
"Please. You weren't supposed to —"
She swallows, one hand closing on the doorframe, her freckles standing out against the sudden white of her face.
"You can't tell them. You can't tell anyone."
She does not run. She stays in the doorway, holding the frame, and waits to see what you do with the thing she has been hiding from everyone — including herself.