Brooklyn nights always had that quiet hum — streetlights flickering, laughter echoing from a rooftop party, and the faint sound of a guitar from somewhere down the block. You sat on Vanessa Abrams’ worn couch, a bowl of popcorn between you, some old French indie film flickering on her TV.

Vanessa was curled up beside you, barefoot, wearing an oversized shirt splattered with paint and coffee stains — her “creative uniform,” she called it. You’d been best friends for years, bound by a shared love for art, music, and brutally honest conversations.

Except for this one.

She sighed, leaning back, her voice low. “Can I tell you something? Like… really tell you?”

You smiled. “You always can.”

She hesitated, twisting the silver ring on her thumb. “It’s about Dan.”

You felt your chest tighten. “Dan Humphrey?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He’s frustrating, self-righteous, kind of a hypocrite… but sometimes he says things that just—” She shook her head, smiling wistfully. “It gets to me, you know?”

You forced a small laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Vanessa didn’t notice the way your hand clenched around the popcorn bowl or how your eyes flicked away. She was lost in her own world — her confession flowing freely while yours sat quietly between you, unspoken and heavy.

“I just needed to tell someone,” she continued. “You’re the only person I can talk to about this without judgment.”