She claps her hands once. “Okay—movie time.”
I smile back, sit down beside her, let her tuck the blanket around my shoulders.
But something inside me has shifted.
And this time, I don’t think it’s just curiosity.
It’s concern.
The pressure behind my eyes is gone, melted away somewhere between the warm tea and Sage’s hands in my hair, the movie murmuring on in the background like white noise. I stretch, roll my shoulders once, and smile at her.
“Thank you,” I say honestly. “My head’s totally gone. I think I’m gonna head out before the rain starts again.”
She lights up. “I’m so glad. See? I told you.”
I grab my bag, slipping my shoes back on, and she suddenly pops up too.
“Oh—wait,” she says. “I should get going as well. I’m heading over to Ethan’s.”
She starts scooping things into a tote—lip gloss, charger, something lacy I very pointedly pretend not to notice.
“I’ll walk out with you,” she adds.
Outside the door, she pulls me into a hug, quick but warm, the kind that feels practiced and sincere.
“I had a great time, sweetie,” she says, pressing her cheek to mine. “Love you.”
The words land so easily, so naturally, that for a second I don’t even question them.
“Love you too,” I say back, surprised to realize I mean it—at least the version of love you have for someone who makes you feel seen, cared for, pulled into their orbit.
As I walk down the stairs and back into the damp evening air, I make a decision.
I won’t say anything.
Not about her apartment.
Not about the mail.
Not about the bills.
Not about the pills.
It’s none of my business.
I’m not the one dating her. I’m not the one sharing a bed or a bank account or a future. I’m just her friend. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping secrets.
I’ve never been a gossiper. Never liked the way it feels to turn someone’s private mess into public currency.
So I tuck it away.
And as I head home, shopping bags swinging lightly at my sides, I feel… motivated.
Maybe Sage is right.
Maybe Ishoulddress up more. Try a little harder. Feel sexy instead of exhausted. Maybe I shouldn’t just accept that myrelationship is always slightly out of sync, that we keep missing each other by minutes and hours and shifts.
I catch my reflection in a darkened storefront window—new makeup, sharper edges, a spark I haven’t seen in a while.
