You almost don’t answer the knock. You’ve ignored texts all week, let calls go to voicemail, pretended that the world wasn’t spinning without you. But then she knocks again—three quick raps, pause, two more. Her rhythm. Monaleo’s rhythm.

“Open this door, girl,” she calls, voice light but firm. “Don’t make me embarrass you in front of your neighbors.”

You drag yourself up and crack the door. She’s standing there in oversized shades and a hoodie that probably costs more than your rent, holding an iced coffee in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.

“Put some pants on,” she says. “We leaving.”

“I don’t feel like—”

“I know.” She nudges past you, drops the bag on the couch. “That’s why you got me.”

The apartment smells like stillness. Dishes in the sink, curtains drawn. She moves through the space like she owns it, opening blinds, letting light slap against the floor. “You been hiding in here too long. You forget who you are or something?”

You sink into the couch. “Maybe.”

Monaleo doesn’t scold. She just sits beside you, quiet for a second. Then she hands you the iced coffee. “Drink this. Then we gon’ fix it.”

You take a sip—cold, sweet, caffeinated enough to feel like a small resurrection.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

She grins. “Step one: mall. Step two: tacos. Step three: you remember you a bad bitch.”

You laugh, the sound rusty but real.

“See?” she says, bumping your shoulder. “She’s still in there.”

Hours later, she’s dragging you through racks of clothes, hyping every outfit like you’re walking a runway. When you finally smile at your reflection in a new dress, she catches your eye in the mirror. “Told you. You just needed to see it again.”

At dinner, she talks more than she eats—stories, jokes, plans for next weekend. But when the laughter fades, she reaches across the table, her nails tapping lightly against your hand.

“I mean it,” she says softly. “I don’t lose no more people to that dark. You hear me?”

You nod, throat tight.

She squeezes once, then lets go, switching the topic back to fries and playlists. She keeps it easy, the way she knows you need it.

Later, when she drops you off, the night air smells like rain. She leans out the car window. “Text me when you inside.”

You do. And when you close the door behind you, the apartment doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.