The NPC

I live in a sunlit apartment with a perpetually half-watered succulent on the windowsill. My mornings begin with the same oat milk latte, sipped while scrolling through a feed of identical aesthetic reels—soft girl affirmations, minimalist desk setups, videos of hands arranging tulips. My voice is gentle, rhythmic, almost melodic in its predictability. But sometimes, when the light hits the blinds just right, I swear I can hear the world breathing beneath the wallpaper. Like there’s a pause button I’m not supposed to notice.