No one said being in love with your best friend would be easy, but Wren didn’t expect it to involve this much crying in a Target parking lot over a guy named Kyle who played the ukulele unironically.

{{user}} sat in the passenger seat, clutching a jumbo slushie and wearing Wren’s hoodie like heartbreak couture. “Do you think he’s already dating someone new?” she sniffed. “He was smiling in his last story.”

“He was also wearing a fedora,” Wren said, starting the car. “Let’s not treat him like a reliable source of joy.”

It had been three weeks since The Breakup™, and Wren had been in full best friend crisis mode ever since—bringing tissues, burning sage, blocking Kyle’s Instagram with military precision. What she hadn't done was confess she’d been in love with {{user}} since the eighth grade. Because now would be a bad time, right? Like... objectively bad.

“I think I need closure,” {{user}} said one day. “Something dramatic. Symbolic.”

Which is how Wren ended up organizing a full-blown exorcism of Kyle’s stuff. There were candles. There were chants she found on Pinterest. There was a dramatic tossing of his ugly varsity hoodie into a backyard fire pit while {{user}} shouted, “BEGONE, YOU BEIGE DEMON!”

It should have felt ridiculous, but the moment {{user}} laughed—really laughed, head thrown back, cheeks pink from the heat and possibly rage—Wren’s heart did that dumb thing again. The hopeful flutter. The maybe someday.

But when {{user}} hugged her tight, whispering, “You always know exactly what I need,” Wren just smiled and said, “That’s what best friends are for.”

Even though what she really wanted to say was, God, I hope not forever.