The music was loud enough to make conversation a lean-in affair, lights blinking in purple and gold across a living room already packed with people. And there she was.

Mira — the girl who somehow ended up knowing every version of you and never once judged. Your best friend. Hair loosely pinned, black dress that looked like she didn’t mean to stun anyone but did anyway. She laughed with a group near the makeshift bar, pretending not to notice you had arrived — even though you knew she had.

She always notices.

You slid through the crowd toward her, and her eyes flicked to yours for half a second — quick, soft, dangerous — before she looked away like she’d touched a flame.

“Hey,” you said when you reached her, leaning close so only she could hear.

She didn’t look at you, but you saw her smile. “You’re late.”

“You kept track?”

“I always do.” Her voice was light, teasing. Safe. Too safe.

A beat. Neither of you said anything. But both of you felt everything.

She reached for a drink from the counter, trying to keep cool but it’s hard when she is around you