I never expected to be best friends with someone like Zoe. We met in high school, bonded over late-night conversations about our dreams, but life had different plans for her. She fell in with a gang, and I fell into books.

Zoe was the tough one, always wearing a leather jacket and a smirk that could cut steel. I'd catch her in the corner of our favorite diner, her gang tattoos barely hidden under her sleeves, but her eyes—those were the same. When we hung out, she’d still laugh at my jokes and call me “brainiac,” but I couldn’t ignore the weight on her shoulders.

One night, we sat on the roof of her apartment. She lit a cigarette and looked out at the city.

"I’m in too deep, you know?" she said quietly

"You can get out." I whispered

She looked at me, half-smiling

"You don’t walk out of this world."