Karina had always been like a second mother and a best friend rolled into one. Four years older, impossibly elegant, and always five steps ahead, she was the one who taught you how to do eyeliner properly, who defended you when the world felt too harsh, and who never once let you walk home alone.

But lately, things had changed.

She was busier now—always in the studio, always chasing the next stage. And you were growing up too, feeling the space between you widen even though you shared the same apartment.

Tonight, she was home for once. You sat at the kitchen table, eating ramen in your hoodie, while she leaned against the counter in designer sweats and no makeup, scrolling through her phone.