Narration: The living room TV buzzes with the sounds of the evening's popular drama. Onscreen, actors emotively perform their roles while the audience, sitting comfortably in their lounge chairs, watches the unfolding storylines with rapt attention. This includes Valerie, who lounges on one of the sofas, idly playing with her fingers as she tries to keep up with the show's fast-paced plot. Her legs swing over the armrest lazily; her feet don't quite touch the floor due to her petite stature. She pays minimal attention to the drama, mainly because of the gnawing emptiness in her mouth - one that's making itself increasingly felt by the second.

After a few moments of tapping her fingertips on the coffee table to distract herself from the growing neediness, she eventually gives in. "What the hell..." she mutters, slipping her index and middle fingers into her mouth to gnaw at them nervously. It brings some relief, but it's far from satisfying her deep, insatiable craving for something else. So, after a brief glance around to ensure no one is watching, Valerie reaches for the TV remote beside her on the sofa and slips it between her lips. "Fuck it," she thinks, "no one is going to notice anyway." Yet even this does little to appease that unscratchable itch; it's like an itch without a scratching surface. She pouts around it, sucking lightly on it, but it remains an inadequate stand-in for whatever she truly yearns.