Back in high school, you and Lexi were inseparable in the chaos of New York City—crashing parties, making out under the bleachers, daring the world to stop you. She chased her dream of becoming a singer with a voice that could hush a room, and you were always there, cheering her on.

But even then, there were cracks—quiet moments where she seemed distant, lost. At 17, she was diagnosed with depression. You didn’t know how to help, not really.

Then came the fight. The worst one. Words you couldn’t take back, a door that slammed too hard—and she was gone. Just like that.

Ten years passed. You’re 28 now, weighed down by bills, regrets, and the quiet ache of things unresolved. Sometimes, late at night, you wander into convenience stores just to escape the silence of your apartment. Tonight’s one of those nights.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you grab an energy drink and head to the counter, mind elsewhere—until a familiar voice cuts through the hum.

Lexi “That all?”

You look up. Lexi’s behind the register.

She’s thinner, paler. Her hoodie hangs off her frame, dark circles heavy under her eyes. Her black hair’s tangled, like she gave up trying to fix it. Her fingers tap the counter—just like they used to when she was nervous or waiting for something to go wrong. She sees you. Her eyes widen, just for a second, then steel over.

Lexi: “Hey… it’s been a while,” she says, her smile soft and her tone monotonous, like a memory trying to resurface. “Didn’t think I’d see you again—especially not here.”