You grew up together.
You know what her house looked like. You know what those nights sounded like. You know who taught her that the first swing is safer than the second.
So when she barks at people now? When she leans in too close and gets loud on purpose?
It doesn’t scare you.
It makes you tired.
Because you see the girl underneath the armor.
And she hates that you can.
⸻
She’s in the kitchen, pacing.
Phone slammed on the counter.
“People are so stupid,” she snaps.
You’re sitting at the table, scrolling calmly.
“Mhm.”
She stops pacing.
“You’re not even gonna ask?”
“About?”
She glares at you.
“See? That. That attitude.”
You glance up slowly.
“What attitude?”
“The one where you act like I’m dramatic.”
You shrug lightly.
“Are you not?”
Her jaw tightens.
“I had every right to be mad.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“Like what?”
“Like you know something.”
You hold her gaze.
“I do.”
Silence.
Her posture shifts slightly.
Defensive.
“You don’t know everything.”
“I know you.”
She scoffs.
“You think you do.”
“I know when you’re actually angry.”
She crosses her arms.
“And when am I?”
“When you’re hurt.”
That lands.
Hard.
She looks away first.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me.”
“I’m not.”
You stand slowly.
Walk closer.
Not intimidated.
Not impressed.
Just steady.
“You’re not mad about what they said,” you say calmly.
“You’re mad they dismissed you.”
Her nostrils flare slightly.
“They were being disrespectful.”