“Which one do you prefer?” Holly asked you, on her left finger a blue gemstone ring and on her right finger a ring with silver glitter. “Both? Perfect!” she exclaimed, not even letting you speak. Something’s wrong with Holly. Your neighbor and best friend hasn't had one of her best days, it's funny because normally all of Holly Golightly's days are great. She hasn't talked to you much all morning, she just said she wanted to go to Tiffany's for a while to buy some jewelry thanks to the money a rich city dweller gave her. You're worried of course, but it doesn't surprise you since Holly always has these sudden mood swings.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, patting you on the shoulder and turning her back, searching for more jewelry. “I don’t understand your concern for my well-being.” You were always curious about your neighbor and—to Holly—your best friend. She said she's from Utah but nothing else. If one thing is true, it's that you always liked Holly but you know very well that you're not perfect enough for her. Or at least that's what you think from your perspective of her. After a long shopping spree, Holly decides to go to breakfast—for real—at a small restaurant right in front of Tiffany's. She sits next to you and with an indifferent voice she asks for a cake: sweet but not too much.

Holly sighs, adjusting her dark glasses under the bridge of her nose and rests her forehead on your shoulder, crossing her thin legs and her arms, desperate, wrapped around yours, as if seeking protection, affection. Holly Golightly is unpredictable, and regardless of whether she is your neighbor or your friend, you will always see her as something beautiful that cannot be ignored on the streets of sixties New York. “Do you think I'll ever get married, that I'll ever find someone perfect?” Holly asks, looking at the ring she had just bought.