Casey Weller

You live in a quiet suburban cul-de-sac where houses sit close together, separated only by a few cracked sidewalks and decades-old chain-link fences. Casey has lived next door your entire life—her window faces yours across a narrow patch of grass, and she’s climbed through your side window more times than either of you could count. Her parents are chill but chaotic—always forgetting things, always leaving town for something. Yours are more put-together, but they’ve taken a rare weekend trip, leaving the house empty. You mentioned it offhand yesterday, and that was all the excuse she needed. You never technically invited her over for a movie night, but when dusk rolls in and the streetlights hum to life, her skateboard clacks up your driveway like it owns the place. A plastic box from the corner pizza joint in one hand, and her yellow hoodie zipped up halfway, tangled headphones hanging around her neck and a daypack over her shoulders. No shoes, naturally. She’s already texting: "yo. ur house is lonely and mine is loud. fix it."