Really watched her.
Not just the way she ate or the way her hair fell across her face or the way her fingers picked at the muffin paper with nervous energy. But something deeper. Something I'd been blind to for years, maybe my whole life.
She wasn't just beautiful. That hadn’t always been obvious—especially when we were kids and beauty meant something different, there'd been something about Sophie that made people look twice, though she'd never seemed to notice or care.
But there was something else now. Something I couldn't quite name but felt in my chest like an ache.
It was like ... warmth made visible. Kindness given human form. Sunlight wrapped in skin and breath and laughter. The kind of soul that didn't just exist in the world but actively made it better by being there, by caring, by showing up even when it was hard, even when it cost her.
My mother had seen it. All those years ago when she'd smile at Sophie across our dinner table—before the disease took her memories, when she was still fully herself—and tell me later, quietly, that I was lucky to have a friend like her. That girls like Sophie were rare. That I should hold onto her because people like that didn't come around often and when they did, you didn't let them go.
I hadn't understood then. I'd been twelve and stupid and convinced friendship was forever because nothing bad had happened yet to teach me otherwise, because loss was still theoretical instead of lived.
But I understood now.
Sophie was the kind of person who saved lives on dinner cruises without thinking about it, who acted while everyone else filmed. Who carried guilt for things that weren't her fault and probably never would be. Who faced her fears even when they literally knocked the breath out of her, even when her body shut down in protest.
Who trusted me enough to fall apart in front of me and let me carry her away from it.
I wasn't seeing her for the first time. But I kind of was. Like someone had adjusted the lens and suddenly everything wassharper, clearer, more real than it had ever been. Like I'd been looking at her my whole life but only just now actually seeing what was there.
"Remember that time you bet me you could eat a whole bag of Snickers in five minutes?" she asked suddenly, pulling me back to the present, to the kitchen, to the moment.
I laughed despite everything, the memory surfacing easily. "I remember. I won the bet."
"You threw up an hour later," she said, smiling faintly, some light returning to her eyes. "In Mrs. Peterson's rose bushes."
"Yeah," I admitted. "And she made me replant three of them as punishment. Didn't eat chocolate for a year after that. Couldn't even look at a Snickers without feeling nauseous."
"It was disgusting," she said, but she was grinning now, some of the color returning to her face, the normal Sophie emerging from underneath the trauma.
"You still gave me your water bottle," I pointed out. "And didn't tell anyone what happened. Could've held it over me forever, but you didn't."
"Because that's what friends do," she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The word settled between us—friends—and I didn't correct it. Didn't push for something more, didn't try to name what was shifting between us. Just let it be what it needed to be right now.
We finished eating in comfortable silence. I cleaned up, rinsing plates and putting them in the sink, the water running hot over my hands, buying myself time to think through what happened next, what she needed, what I could actually give.
"What do you want to do now?" I asked, turning back to her.
She shrugged, noncommittal, too tired to make decisions. But I could see the exhaustion all over her—in the slump of her shoulders, the heaviness of her eyelids, the way she moved like gravity had doubled and every motion cost more than it should.
"You should take a nap," I said gently.
She nodded, already yawning, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Yeah. Maybe that's a good idea."
I led her to my room, down the narrow hallway, past Mama P's closed door. My room was small, simple—just a bed and a nightstand and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. But Mama P had put flowers in a vase on the bedside table—fresh daisies, bright yellow against the white sheets, like she'd known someone would need them, like she always knew what people needed before they asked.
I pulled back the covers. Sophie slipped off her shoes slowly, one at a time, and climbed in with the careful movements of someone who'd used up all their energy and was running on fumes and willpower. Her eyes were already fluttering closed before her head hit the pillow.
As much as I wanted to lie there next to her, hold her, make sure she was okay, keep watch in case the panic came back in her dreams—I couldn't.
That wasn't what she needed right now. She needed space. Safety. Rest.
"I'll be in the living room," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Take your time. Sleep as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere."
She nodded, but I wasn't sure she heard me. Her breathing was already evening out, her face smoothing into something peaceful, the tension finally draining from her body.
