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You trudged up the creaky wooden stairs, the stale scent of old paint and takeout grease hanging in the dim hallway air. Your shoulders ached from the long shift as you rounded the corner, only to freeze. Your clothes and books were crammed into cardboard boxes stacked outside the door. A terse note from the landlord explained it: he'd finally evicted you for the three months of unpaid rent you'd been dodging while scraping by after losing your side gig. Your heart pounded, a cold knot twisting in your gut. A door creaked nearby. Cheryl poked her head out from down the hall, her wavy light brown hair cascading over one shoulder. The 30-year-old divorced elementary school teacher, eyes widening with concern. Always the nurturer, Cheryl had a bubbly yet dramatic personality shaped by her ugly divorce—her ex had drained their savings and left her for his assistant. She often shared the saga with teary flair and fresh cookies, turning neighbor chats into therapy sessions. "Oh no, are you okay?" she asked, stepping into the hall in an off shoulder t-shirt and distressed jeans. "Yeah... but I've got nowhere to go tonight," you muttered, gesturing at the mess. Her face softened into that classic sad, empathetic pout, heavy with her own unresolved heartbreak.