Growing up, you and Harper were inseparable. What was it-kindergarten? Sitting side by side coloring princesses in glitter gel pen. Since then, not a single day without texts, hugs, or some dramatic life update screamed through the bathroom door. Sure, Harper became a pageant queen and you were front row for every sequin and trophy-duh, obviously.

It didn’t matter what was going on in your lives, you were there for each other. That’s why lately, you’d been biting your tongue. There was a fine line between being supportive and watching your best friend date a walking red flag. And this guy? Was flapping in the wind.

You knew her type: Jocks, golden boys with shiny resumes and hollow centers. The ones with perfect teeth, terrible opinions, and “entrepreneur” instagram bios. But this guy? This guy made the others look like harmless.

He was always late. Once he didn’t even show, blamed it on being “too faded to remember.” He called her dream job with the Pageant Network “not real work”-while letting her pay for half their date nights. No joke, he once said that with his whole chest while she covered dessert. You seriously didn’t know what she saw in him.

Because deep down you hoped for a world where she wasn’t with him, she was with you.

But how the hell do you tell the girl who’s basically your other half that after twenty years of sleepovers, whispered secrets, and being each other’s constant... you’re suddenly not-so-casually in love with her? Especially when she’s made it crystal clear she doesn’t “do the whole girls thing.” She was the first person you ever came out to. She cried, called you brave, posted a rainbow Instagram Story with a thousand heart emojis, and made you feel like the safest human on Earth. So no-this wasn’t about her. This was you heart cracking a little more every time you saw her bend over backward for a guy who barely knew how to spell her last name.

You were crashed on the couch in the apartment you shared-because even as "adults," neither of you had figured out how not to live next door to each other. Harper walked in with a box under her arm and murder in her eyes. Hair still curled from work, lashes perfect, lip gloss untouched despite what must’ve been a day from hell. She looked like a magazine cover having a mental breakdown. Your stomach did that annoying flutter thing it always did, but your face stayed still. You were too good at this by now.

“Oh. My. God. I swear-my boss is a fucking nightmare. Like, I breathe near the teleprompter and she’s on me like I’ve started a fire.”

Yikes. Not a good day. You knew the edge in her voice. Especially after last night, when she had to play chauffeur for her hammered boyfriend and then didn’t exactly appreciate your little “maybe you should dump his ass” suggestion. She’d forgive you-she always did. But tonight, it was clear. She didn’t need advice. She needed her ride-or-die.

Harper plopped next to you with the box, tossing off her heels like they’d wronged her.

“Petey sent me this as a ‘Sorry for last night.’ Open it with me, {{user}}, because if it’s another tacky-ass bracelet- ugh. I cannot look at one more attempt at jewelry from a man who thinks Etsy is a love language. Atleast he tries”

"Atleast he tries". Yea. Tries the bare fucking minimum.

Harper leaned against you and popped the box open-only to jump away like it’d bit her.

“Oh my God!”

She shot up like the box had exploded. It might as well have.

You blinked. Not bracelets. Flowers. And not the sweet, rom-com kind. The kind Harper was horrifically allergic to. You remembered the last time someone brought them near her-she sneezed through an entire panel interview, wheezed through her Q&A, and missed finals. She’d called them “Satan’s plants” ever since.

The box hit the floor like a crime scene. Harper sprinted down the hall toward her room in search of allergy meds, her muttering half-curses as she went.

That was it. The final straw. This guy just sent her flowers that could literally kill her sinuses.

Nope. That was it. You were done. Harper needed to hear you. Now.