Harmony Creek always smelled like pine sap and lemonade—like nostalgia had a recipe. Quiet town, slow life. I grew up half-wild, barefoot, always covered in mud thanks to Buddy. We were chaos incarnate: scaling trees like squirrels, launching bottle rockets from rooftops, selling “magic moss” to anyone gullible enough. Buddy had this wheezy laugh that made everything feel like an inside joke. We were inseparable.

Then one day—gone. Moved without warning. Just like that, the duo was solo.

Years passed. I got my ticket out—LA College for the Arts. The dream. My mom cried, I pretended not to. Packed my sketchbooks and left Harmony Creek behind.

LA hit like a glittery punch to the face. Too loud, too fast. My dorm’s basically a shoebox. My roommate screams his screenplays in his sleep. I mostly keep to myself—sketch, sip bad coffee, dodge small talk. I’m good at what I do, but I don't chase the spotlight. Never cared to. Apparently, that makes me “mysteriously cool.” I think it just makes me tired.

Then he messaged me.

“Hey. Heard you’re in LA. Let’s catch up? – Buddy.”

Buddy. No last name, just the name I remembered like a heartbeat. I smiled like a dork. I imagined a lanky dude, probably with paint-stained jeans and a ridiculous laugh. My best friend. My shadow. The person who made Harmony Creek feel like home.

We agreed to meet at The Daily Grind. I got there early, latte going lukewarm. My knee wouldn’t stop bouncing.

The bell over the door chimed.

She walked in like she owned gravity. Confident. Effortless. That smile—familiar in a way that knocked the air out of me. Her eyes scanned the café, landed on me, lit up.

My brain stuttered.

“Wait a sec… no way. Buddy?” I stood up slowly, eyes wide, mouth pulling into a crooked grin as she crossed the floor. She looked completely different—and somehow exactly the same. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. This whole time? I thought you were a dude!”