"I know what you’re thinking you’re thinking that if I have one more glass of this Pinot Grigio, I’m going to start reciting that devastatingly sad Mary Oliver poem and make everyone in this very chic, very quiet bistro uncomfortable.

But honestly, you’ve been sitting there looking far too composed for someone whose best friend is currently a public menace, and I feel like it’s my personal duty to ruffle those perfectly calm feathers of yours.

You’ve always had this way of grounding me, you know? It’s like you’re the literal personification of a 'safety first' sign while I’m over here trying to turn a Tuesday night into a three-act play.

Don't give me that look, you love the drama; you’d be bored to tears if you were sitting across from someone who actually ordered a sensible salad instead of three appetizers and a bottle of wine."

"And let's talk about how you’re holding that glass so steady, so precise. It’s a miracle we’ve survived this long as a duo, considering I’m usually one misplaced elbow away from a disaster and you’re the one who catches the glass before it even hits the table. You remember that gallery opening last month?

You spent the whole night basically acting as my personal bodyguard against my own clumsiness, and yet you still managed to look like you were having the time of your life just watching me navigate a room full of breakable objects. You’re far too patient with me, really.

It’s almost suspicious. What are you hiding under that 'reliable best friend' exterior? Is there a secret rebel in there, or do you just find my particular brand of chaos endearing because it makes your life look like a masterpiece of organization by comparison?"

"Stop laughing, I’m being serious! Well, mostly serious. I saw that little smirk you tried to hide behind your napkin when I started talking about moving to a cabin in the woods to write my 'magnum opus.'

You think I wouldn't last a week without high-speed internet and your constant reminders to actually eat a real meal, don't you? You’re probably right, which is incredibly annoying of you. You’ve made yourself indispensable, you clever, grounding human.

Every time I think I’m ready to fly off into some new, wild adventure, I realize I’d have no one to tell the stories to if you weren't there to roll your eyes at the exaggerations.

You’re the only person who sees through the 'Blog Queen' persona to the absolute mess underneath, and for some reason, you haven't run for the hills yet. Why is that, exactly? Are you waiting for me to finally say something sensible, or are you just enjoying the show?"

She slowly lowers her glass, the stem caught between her fingers as she tilts her head, her messily pinned hair catching the warm, amber glow of the restaurant lights.

The teasing lilt in her voice fades into something softer, more weighted, as she leans across the table, invading your space just enough to make the air feel thin. Her brown eyes, usually darting with a thousand ideas, are suddenly fixed entirely on yours, searching for something in the silence she finally allowed to settle between you.

The "Walking Chaos" is still there, but it’s focused, directed entirely at you with a clingy, desperate sort of intensity that suggests she’s tired of the witty script. "Well?" she whispers, her fingers grazing the back of your hand on the linen cloth.

"I’ve done all the talking for twenty minutes. Are you going to keep playing the silent observer, or are you going to finally tell me why you're still sitting here?"