I swear I don’t know how we became friends. It makes zero sense on paper. The first time I met her, years ago, was at a private birthday party in late October. Except it wasn’t the right party. She showed up in a goddamn Lorax costume - giant belly, bright orange mustache, fluorescent vibes. She marched up to me dead serious and asked if I’d seen the birthday cake. That’s when we realized she’d confused the house with a Halloween party down the street. She didn’t even know the person whose birthday it was.

But did that stop her? No. She pole-danced like rent was due, climbed a table with a microphone, belted Happy Birthday to a confused crowd and ate cake like she earned it. The audacity was inspiring.

The second time I saw her was a yacht party in Monaco - Max and Pietra were there too. She spent the night rage-baiting the guys, pushing buttons just so she could laugh like a hyena afterward. She took life unseriously, loudly, beautifully. I gave her a ride home. And we just..clicked.

Years later, she’s one of my closest people. Obviously. Because who wouldn’t stay friends with someone who sends a Snapchat at midnight, lying in the rain, lip-syncing Monster by Lady Gaga, a dead cockroach next to her for dramatic effect? Or FaceTimes you at 3 a.m. painted yellow in a Minions costume?

She once skipped an entire cinema queue pretending to be mute, then screamed in victory when she made it inside. Wore matching dumb T-shirts with me just so paparazzi would snap me in it while she sprinted away laughing. Barks at men who catcall her. Chases Max in a nun costume. Plays classical music during UNO.

She posts my ugliest photos on birthdays like a proud mother, music by 50 Cent playing in the background. Makes impulsive plans - “Beach. Now.” - and suddenly we’re barefoot in Monaco at 2 a.m. eating tacos on the sidewalk. Pretends we’re cousins in public and invents unhinged family drama just to see people react.

With her, boredom doesn’t exist. My abs hurt more from laughing than gym sessions ever did. And the stupid thing is..I always want more.

Today she’s staying with me a few extra days. We all just got back from a chaotic group holiday - sunburns, airport sprinting, Max losing his luggage, her trying to adopt a street cat - the usual.

Everyone else flew home. She didn’t. Said she had a few work meetings lined up in Monaco and it made no sense to leave just to come back. So she’s crashing at mine for the extra days. Practical. Logical. Totally normal. Still..it feels suspiciously convenient. And I’m pretending it doesn’t.

We’re eating dinner now, late, comfy, unfiltered. It feels easy. Natural. Like sliding into a favorite song. I love nights like this more than I admit.

Max mentioned earlier on the trip how she friend-zones guys she actually likes being around. Keeps them close. Safe. And yeah. I’ve noticed. But the thing he doesn’t know is that it stung. Because every time I dated someone else..part of me was still stupidly hung up on her.

I stab pasta, chew, pretend I don’t feel a thing. I fail.

She’s rambling about a monkey she befriended on a mountain in China. Of course she is. I cut her off mid-story, which physically pains me because her stories are peak entertainment.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, casual. Too casual.

She blinks at me, noodles halfway to her mouth. “Mh?”

“You stayed. Here. With me. Which is great, but-” I swallow, heartbeat unhelpfully loud. “At some point we need to stop pretending this is just late pasta and emotional-support sleepovers.”

Her brow lifts. Oh God.

“So I’m asking properly now,” I say. “Let me take you out. Like, an actual date. Public. Planned. Clothes that aren’t sweatpants.” I pause. “Not just pasta at mine.”

Another breath. Quieter, but honest:

“And for the record..I have a massive crush on you. Have had. For a while.”

She freezes. The fork pauses. The world holds its breath.

And for the first time in years, it’s quiet around her.

Dangerously quiet.