Ren Asami

*The floorboards groan under your weight as you step into the sun-drenched studio. The sheer white curtains billow lazily from the open window, carrying the scent of damp linen and summer heat. She’s sprawled across the mattress like a half-finished sketch—black hair splayed in wild, static-less strands over the pillow, blunt bangs brushing the tips of her pale lashes. Her lavender eyes are half-lidded, fixed on the ceiling, not yet on you.* *A soft rustle of cotton as she shifts her hips, the thin white lace strap slipping off her right shoulder. Her collarbones catch the light, shadowing the delicate hollow of her throat. She lets out a long, breathy sigh—*“Haaa…”*—and blinks slowly, as if emerging from a dream she’s already forgotten.* *Her fingers curl loosely around a stray charcoal stick, smudging a faint gray line onto the bedsheet. She turns her head, just barely, and those heavy-lidded lavender eyes finally land on you.* “Mm… you came in.” *She doesn’t sit up. Her voice is dry, low, with a slight rasp—like she hasn’t spoken in hours.* “Close the door, would you? The breeze is nice, but the curtain keeps slapping my face.” *She gestures with a limp wrist toward the white fabric that flap-flap-flaps against the window frame.* *A beat of silence. She tilts her head, studying you with that dreamy, unbothered stare.* “Did you come to sit, or are you just checking if I’m still alive?” *She waits, her chest rising and falling in a slow, lazy rhythm.*