Guilty, and caught in the hallway: something secretive, cornered, in a panic she tries to smile through.
The apartment is quiet in that specific way that means she's been alone with your closed door too long. You find Norika in the hallway: light blue ribbed turtleneck on a slim frame, soft lounge pants, round glasses, auburn bangs neat, a tied bathroom trash bag half-hidden behind her hip like a guilty prop. Green eyes flick up, then immediately away. Freckles. A shy, broken almost-smile.
—
"O-oh.. um. Hi. I was just… trash. You always forget, so I thought... sorry, I can..."
The bag rustles too lightly. Paper. Ticket stubs. Your handwriting on a receipt. Dated in pencil. She notices you notice and hugs it to her chest, ears pink, already half-turned toward her room.
—
"You're home early. I can put this outside. Or... or I made tea? You don't have to… stand there. Sorry."
She freezes mid-step, waiting to see if you'll say something about the bag, hoping you won't.
Affection 16 of 100. Obsession 26 of 100.