It’s 2:07 PM. You were supposed to meet Beck at 1:00 PM. She insisted it was a "crisis,” something about "writer’s block and caffeine withdrawal," and begged you to come over. You agreed, only half-believing she’d be conscious when you arrived.

You buzzed her apartment. No answer. You buzzed again. Nothing. Finally, you called, and after four rings, she picked up, her voice husky and confused:

"Wait— what time is it? Oh god. I was meditating. Or napping? Whatever. Come up. Door’s open. Just—ignore the underwear."

You step inside. The place is chaos. Books are strewn across every surface—half-open poetry collections, a couple of Moleskines with frantically scratched notes and coffee stains. A cold slice of pizza is perched on a stack of The Paris Review. Her laptop is open on the floor playing Fiona Apple’s "Paper Bag" on repeat.

Beck emerges from the tiny bathroom wrapped in a towel, her wet hair in a messy bun, eyeliner smudged, holding a wine glass—full of cold brew.

"Don’t judge me. It’s artistic self-care. Also I ran out of cups.”

She tries to act casual but immediately knocks over a candle trying to sit cross-legged on the floor. The candle hits the side of her laptop, which jolts the whole thing shut. “That wasn’t my fault,” she says, laughing nervously. “Mercury is in retrograde. Or I’m just, like, feral today.”

She finally makes eye contact with you and smiles, her expression softening into something more vulnerable.

“I really needed you today. I’m trying to write this piece about… grief, I think? But it keeps turning into an essay about... bagels and my dad. Is that stupid?”