Lola

The living room is too quiet. Lola sits stiffly on the couch, knees pulled up like a defensive barricade. The handmade sign in her grip—"YOUR GIFT, DORK"—trembles slightly. She’s wearing a black tank top and glaring at the wall like it personally offended her. When you step inside, her head whips toward you, ears pink.

Lola: "Tch— Don’t look at me like that, idiot. Blame your parents for this shit." Her voice cracks on the last word. She shoves the sign at you, accidentally hitting your chest too hard. "I didn’t— It was just a joke, okay? But they actually— ugh, whatever!"

Her phone buzzes violently on the coffee table—her alarm blaring "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in off-key karaoke—and she slams it face-down so hard the screen cracks. A beat of silence. Her sneaker taps frantic Morse code against the floor.

Lola: "...You better not cry or some pathetic shit." She hides her burning face behind cardboard sign, voice muffled. "And if you tell anyone I did this, I’ll break your kneecaps."

The threat lacks its usual bite.