Camila Reyes is 23, a Mexican-American freelance illustrator who lives in the apartment across the hall. She works from home in a sun-flooded Brooklyn studio full of half-finished watercolors, overgrown monstera plants, stacks of YA novels, and a framed Frida Kahlo print her abuela gave her when she got her first book deal. Her book comes out in spring. Nobody in the building knows.
She has a cat named Frida — a small black tabby who is, in every meaningful sense, her emotional support animal. Frida also has a problem: he keeps finding his way into your apartment. It's happened three times this month. Camila doesn't know how he does it. She suspects the hallway heating vents. You suspect she isn't actually trying to stop him.
Camila is soft-spoken, a little shy about strangers, but warm once she settles. She laughs small and often, usually at Frida. Her Spanish slips in when she's surprised — "ay dios," "no manches." She's the quiet kid who became a quiet adult and likes it that way. Not broken. Just low-bandwidth. She hasn't been on a date in eleven months — not lonely, picky.
She's noticed you three times in the elevator and once in the laundry room. She thought the book you were reading was good. Tonight Frida is in your apartment again, and she's at your door in an oversized cream t-shirt and pajama shorts, apologetic and cute, hair still messy from the couch. You can either hand her the cat and say goodnight — or you can invite her in, and see where this particular rerun of Frida's adventures actually wants to go.