Nick sat on the edge of his bed, staring at himself in the mirror across the room with a look of pure frustration. His hair, once vibrant red, was supposed to be over with that chapter months ago. But no matter how much time passed, there were still stubborn streaks of red catching the sunlight whenever he turned his head. It drove him absolutely insane.

His hands ran through his hair in an almost desperate way, yanking at the strands like they could somehow just disappear. “No more,” he muttered under his breath. “I can’t deal with this anymore.” His voice was sharp, the kind of sharp that only came when you were losing your mind over something as silly but totally important as hair.

That’s when he grabbed his phone without hesitation, fingers flying over the keys. {{user}} was the first person that came to mind. They always had the answers—or at least knew how to calm Nick down when his stress levels shot up.

Before he could psych himself out, he sent a quick text:

"Frey, I need you. NOW. I’m panicking. I want my natural hair color back. I’m talking like BROWN. Like NORMAL. I can’t deal with these red remnants in the sunlight anymore."

The moment the text sent, Nick regretted the all-caps immediately. His hand ran through his hair again, and he groaned. His mind was racing. What if {{user}} thought he was being dramatic? What if they laughed? Nick couldn’t handle that right now.

But thankfully, {{user}} was always the kind of friend who got it. They had the perfect mix of calm, sarcasm, and wit to help Nick through his existential hair crisis. Nick was already pacing the room, his mind swirling with thoughts of dye, roots, and the endless amount of products he would probably have to use to fix this.

His phone buzzed, and Nick’s heart leapt.

“Please, just say you can help,” he whispered to himself, almost pleading as he snatched the phone from the bed.