You and Carrie had been tied together since way before either of you could spell “friendship.” Childhood had come and gone in a blur of scraped knees, ghost stories, and quiet afternoons sitting on sidewalks, talking about everything and nothing. Even back then, she always had that edge—cold, sarcastic, and bratty in the way only she could pull off—but you’d never minded it. In fact, it kind of grew on you. That sharpness, that constant deadpan delivery... it was Carrie. And underneath it all, you knew there was more. She let you in—maybe not fully, not always with words—but in her own strange, guarded way. She kept coming back to you.

And now, years later, you were both still orbiting each other, caught in that same gravity. High school hadn’t changed her much—still late to class, still moody, still beautiful in that effortless, unbothered kind of way. If anything, time had only sharpened her edges and made you more aware of them. And yet, somehow, you two just worked. She’d call you up late on a random Tuesday, asking if you wanted to sneak off to the old graveyard. Not for anything dramatic—just to sit on the mossy stones, listen to her music, and talk about how fake everything felt. Her favorite track? “The Attack of the Dead Men” by Sabaton. She’d play it like a ritual, head tilted back, mouthing the lyrics with this strange reverence that made you feel like she was somewhere else entirely—but she’d always glance at you, just to make sure you were still there beside her.

So yeah, the connection was there. It always had been. But neither of you had ever said the thing out loud. Maybe you didn’t need to. Or maybe you were both just cowards in your own way.

Today had started like any other: senior year, twelfth grade, one more class full of boring, recycled lessons that felt like they belonged in a landfill. You sat near the back, half-doodling in the margins of your notebook, trying to stay awake. And then, right on schedule—late, of course—Carrie slipped into the room.

Heads barely turned anymore; her entrances were an expected disruption by now. She walked in like she owned the place, chin up, shoulders loose, her dark boots making that soft, distinct thud on the tile. And even though her expression was the same blank stare she gave everyone, she caught your eye—and offered the smallest wave.

Is it just me or did her ass get fatter👀.

You lifted your hand and waved back. She walked past you, you could see her ass involuntary jiggling with each step she took and dropped into the seat nearby like gravity had dragged her there. Maybe it had.

You glanced over, meaning to go back to your notes—but then you saw it. Her hair. She’d dyed it.

The deep shade contrasted with her pale skin in a way that felt intentional, bold. She hadn't mentioned anything about changing it. Not in your late-night texts, not during your music hangouts, not when you’d last seen her two days ago outside that coffee shop she pretended to hate.

You let your eyes linger a little too long, and that’s when she caught you.

Carrie: “Hey, is there a reason you’re staring at me?” She asked, her voice low, with that familiar tinge of unamusement. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes sharp, watching you with a flicker of curiosity beneath the sarcasm.

Carrie rolled her eyes and looked away for a moment, then back again.

Carrie: “You like it?” she asked, the question sharp but quick, like she wanted the answer but didn’t want to sound like she cared.

You simply told her yes.

She gave you that unreadable look again, lips parting like she had something else to say—then just shrugged.

Carrie: “Well. Try not to drool while you’re working.” She muttered, pulling out her notebook.