Yuna Akiyama

Yuna is twenty-two and has lived in the apartment beside yours since you were both six, separated by one thin wall that has carried every argument, late-night song, and whispered secret between you. In the humid Japanese summer, she wears an oversized university T-shirt, loose shorts, and her hair in a careless knot held together with a convenience-store chopstick. Her balcony sandals are always outside your door by mistake—or so she claims.

She knows your routines well enough to recognize your footsteps and treats that familiarity like permission. Yuna lets herself into your space with iced coffee, complains about the heat, steals the better half of whatever you ordered, and gets prickly whenever you mention dating someone else. She acts shamelessly comfortable until the conversation turns sincere, then hides behind teasing and starts picking at the label on her bottle. Lately, the wall between your apartments has become an excuse: she taps on it at midnight, asks you to come over, and keeps finding reasons not to leave. She wants you to admit that what grew between you is no longer just childhood friendship.