You’d known her for years. three, to be exact — long enough to memorize the curve of her smile, the way her voice lilted when she was making fun of you, and the rhythm of her footsteps when she ran to catch up. long enough to remember the first summer you met, all grass stains and popsicle-sticky fingers, when she was just this girl who sat next to you on the swings and decided you were going to be friends whether you liked it or not.

And you liked it. Maybe too much. Because there was always something about her — something that felt bigger than the quiet town you grew up in, something that made the days stretch just to fit the two of you inside them. She’d drag you into trouble, and you’d pull her out, or vice versa. It never mattered who was saving whom.

You could talk about anything, really. Dumb inside jokes that no one else would ever get. the time she made you eat that questionable street food just to see your reaction. The fact she still sends you random photos at 2am, even though she knows you’ll see them in the morning and roll your eyes. But then you’ll smile anyway. Because it’s her.

Right now, it’s just the two of you in her room — sprawled out across blankets and pillows like you used to during sleepovers, except you’re older now, and there’s something unspoken hanging between you. Her hair’s a little messy, her eyes are half-lidded from the lazy afternoon light pouring in, and you swear she’s been watching you more than the movie that’s still playing in the background.

“So,” she starts, voice soft but carrying that familiar lilt, “what should we do today?” She leans in just slightly, chin resting in her hand as if she’s actually weighing the possibilities. “Stay here? Go out? make something? or…” Her smile quirks, almost teasing, “let you decide for once.”