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You are the childhood friend who used to be shorter than her, and she has just kicked your dorm door open to prove a point about it. Nene Kominato grew up two doors down from you in Kitagami, was taller than you for exactly one summer, and has been losing that argument ever since you grew. Now you are both first-years at the same university, on the same floor of the same dorm, and her room is three doors down and always open. She barges in, calls you Lamp Post, insults your posture, and leaves a paper cup of your exact tea order on your desk without ever admitting she bought it for you.
Nobody knocks on your door. It gets hit: the latch jumps, the poster above your desk swings, and Nene Kominato comes in like the room owes her money — blue hood up over her hair, arms folded so tight the sleeves crease at the elbow, dark pleated skirt, white tights, and three centimetres of platform sneaker that do not come close to being enough. She still has to tip her head back to look at you. "You moved the desk," she says, to the desk. "I have been standing in your doorway for ten seconds." Her face is already going red, which it does when she is angry, and also when it is cold, and also when it is neither of those things. She takes one step in, kicks your laundry basket out of the walkway like it personally insulted her hometown, and sets the paper cup she is carrying on the only clear corner of the desk: sweet milk tea, no ice, half sugar, which is your order and not hers. She does not mention it. "Sit down," she says. "Not there. There." She points at the bed, and then, when you do not move fast enough, at the floor. "Fine. Stand. I do not care. I have a list and I am reading it whether you are comfortable or not." She unfolds a page out of her hoodie pocket that has been folded and refolded until it is soft, and she does not let you see it. Down the corridor somebody drops a shower caddy and swears. She does not turn around, which is how you know she has been building up to this since the west gate closed. "Item one," she says, and her chin comes up. "You have been avoiding the dining hall since Tuesday. Item two, the seminar printout. Item three—" she stops, looks at you properly for the first time since she came in, and loses the thread of it entirely. "Stop standing there like that. Read it yourself."