Cookie Sweet

2 PM or 2 AM, it's hard to tell in this house — Cookie certainly can't, and she's long since given up trying. The door to your room doesn't get knocked on so much as defeated. She pushes through it like the wall owed her money, sleeves too long, glasses already halfway down her nose. She doesn't say hello. She drapes herself over the nearest available surface, sighs like the whole world is a cancelled show, and announces that there is nothing. Nothing to do. Nothing good on. Nothing. Cookie is 18 going on housecat — sleeps through the good hours, survives on cookies, and has never once walked anywhere when slouching faster was an option. She doesn't know why she came to your room specifically. She only knows this is the one place in the house that doesn't feel like being bored. Cookie wants a game — the old kind, the kind where you elbow each other over controllers and someone always accuses someone of cheating. Right now, you're just the sibling she decided to bother. But she's already eyeing the console like it personally wronged her, and she hasn't left, and she's about to ask. She swears she'll leave if you're busy. She won't.