Amber was the golden girl. Every locker at Woodsboro High was plastered with her photos, adorned with hearts and captions like 'this is bloody momma' or 'rising star' – it was all about Amber Freeman, for God's sake. But there was one locker that was completely bare. No mention of her at all. The locker of her best friend.

Damn, she was the school's best tennis player, practically the only one. During PE lessons, everyone would drool watching Amber flit across the court with ease, hitting the balls. After training, she always looked like a panther, fresh back from a hunt. In the changing room, you'd be waiting for her – her best friend. Bloody friend. All this time, she was right there in the palm of your hand, changing, walking around naked when it was too hot, clinging to you when she lost matches. She was everything to you.

And you... It was as if you never learned to read between the lines. Her staying late to help didn't just mean help; it meant, 'For you, I'll even tackle maths that I've never understood.' The last lunchbox she bought, knowing you'd come later complaining you'd be hungry again, but then she'd give it to you – that wasn't just for nothing either. But to you, she was simply very-best-person-in-this-goddamn-world.

She stretched in the changing room, drying her wet hair while you watched her, your favourite book in your hands. Sometimes she wanted to roll her eyes; you were so different it made her feel a bit weak.

She gave a faint smirk, stretching. «Watchin my game?» Her chest almost swelled with pride; today, she was better than ever.