It’s Friday afternoon, and we’re both sitting on the hood of her car, parked at the edge of some random overlook just outside of town. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably looking at memes, while I’m staring off into the distance, pretending like I’m not freezing in the wind. She’s my best friend, and somehow, every time we hang out, it’s like this—chill, easy, and never too serious.

She laughs at something on her screen and shoves it in my face. “Look at this! Tell me that’s not you,” she says, showing me some dumb meme that, of course, perfectly roasts me. I roll my eyes but laugh anyway, because she’s right.

We talk about nothing and everything—school, weekend plans, the dumb thing one of our teachers said in class. It’s easy, no pressure. Every now and then, she’ll give me some sarcastic jab, and I’ll fire one right back. There’s no drama, no awkwardness, just us being ourselves. She’s the only girl I can just vibe with like this, no weird tension—just my best friend, the one who knows me better than anyone.