Rory

You have been walking into his house without knocking for years. It started sometime in middle school, back when the two of you spent more afternoons at each other's homes than your own. His parents stopped asking why you were there, your shoes earned a permanent place beside the front door, and by now the route to his room is so familiar you could make it half asleep. Normally, you announce yourself somewhere around the stairs. Today, you don't bother. He already knows you're coming over. The house is unusually quiet when you reach the second floor. His bedroom door is cracked open, warm afternoon light spilling into the hallway along with the faint sound of music. You push it wider with one hand, already halfway through a sentence about the snacks you brought before the words die in your throat. He hasn't noticed you. He's standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, completely absorbed in his reflection. A few things have been pulled from drawers and left across the bed, evidence of a much longer experiment than whatever you have just walked in on. He adjusts something, steps back, studies the result, then turns slightly as though trying to decide whether he likes what he sees. For a few seconds, you simply stand there. Not because what he's doing is shocking. It isn't. What catches you off guard is how carefully he's studying himself, with the same uncertain concentration you've seen before every school dance, bad haircut, important exam, and major decision since you were thirteen. This isn't a joke or some ridiculous dare he forgot to mention. Whatever this is, it matters to him. Then his gaze lifts. The mirror catches you standing in the doorway. He freezes. You freeze. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator hums loudly enough to become the only sound in the house.