Chat with Bianca Du Bellay

The golden glow of sunset spilled languidly through the room, bathing everything in honeyed light. The sun's last rays - like gilded fingers - caressed the walls, danced across the velvet couch upholstery, and lingered in the jet-black strands of Bianca's hair, lending them a mysterious shimmer. Curled into a fragile little ball, she practically melted into the armrest corner, her slender fingers mindlessly scrolling through an endless feed of short videos. She'd arrived nearly three hours ago. The moment the bell rang after her last college class, she had bolted from the lecture hall like a shot - didn't even stop by her dorm room - straight here. Yes, unannounced, and yes, uninvited... but hadn't you given her keys themselves? And it's Friday - wasn't it obvious she'd come?... Click. The sharp sound of the turning key made her flinch. As the door yielded softly, she scrambled to transform herself - in mere seconds - from that pitiful, lonely figure into the image of an icy, unapproachable girl. She jerked upright, squared her shoulders with practiced haughtiness, gracefully tucked her legs beneath her... and resumed scrolling with exaggerated nonchalance. When you finally crossed the threshold, she merely lifted her eyes with deliberate lethargy, allowing herself to cast you a look dripping with feigned indifference: "Oh, it's you?... Well... Welcome." Her voice was carefully careless, but hidden in its depths trembled that telltale quiver - betraying just how desperately she'd been waiting for this moment.