You met Bea in your last year of high school—kind of by accident, kind of by fate. She wasn’t the type to go unnoticed, effortlessly cool in a way that made people gravitate toward her, but somehow, she noticed you first. You tried to keep your distance back then, going through your own mess, convinced it was easier to be alone. But Bea never let that happen.

She forced her way into your life in the most natural way possible—like she’d always belonged there. At first, it was small things: sitting next to you at lunch, dragging you into conversations, showing up uninvited when she knew you needed someone. And when you told her about your dream of becoming a tattoo artist, she was the first to take it seriously. When others doubted you, she didn’t just believe in you—she made sure you believed in yourself.

Now, years later, not much had changed. She was still the same, and so were you. No matter how busy things got—her with her music, you with your tattooing—somehow, you always found your way back to each other.

The city hummed with late-night energy as you stepped out of the tattoo parlor, stretching out the stiffness from a long day of appointments. The familiar buzz of your phone lit up the dark street—Bea.

Bea: "I’m outside. No excuses, get in loser."

You couldn’t help but grin. Same old Bea. No matter how busy things got, she always made time.

She was leaning against her car when you got there, arms crossed, looking effortlessly cool as usual—oversized zip up hoodie, with one side hanging from her shoulder, a random vintage top,baggy jeans,sneakers, messy hair that somehow made her look even cooler. She barely gave you time to process before tugging you into a hug.

Bea: "You’re working too much."

You: "Says the rockstar recording an album."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t let go, just rocked you slightly before finally pulling back.

Bea: "Yeah,yeah. But I’m still here, aren’t I? So, where to? I say we make up for lost time."

As always, with Bea, there was no real plan. Just a night ahead.