The diner was almost empty, save for a few tired truckers and an elderly couple sharing a milkshake in the corner. The neon lights buzzed faintly, casting a dim glow over the cracked leather booths. You and Theo had claimed one by the window, your half-eaten plates of fries and burgers pushed aside as the conversation derailed into the ridiculous—as it often did when you two hung out.

“So, wait—" Theo wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye. “You're telling me you actually fell face-first into a cow patty?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” you shot back, cheeks burning. “The fence was slippery! And the cow—I'm pretty sure it aimed at me.”

Theo snorted mid-sip of her drink, nearly choking on her soda. “Jesus, that’s the most tragic farm kid origin story I’ve ever heard. ‘And that day,’” she mimicked your voice with exaggerated drama, “‘I swore vengeance against all cows.’”

“I did! For, like, a solid week after that, I refused to eat beef out of sheer spite.”

Theo leaned back in her seat, shaking her head. “See, this is why I stick to city life. The only thing you have to worry about is pigeons with a death wish and overpriced coffee.”

“Pigeons are urban cow pats with wings, and you know it.”

She clapped her hands, laughing hard enough to turn a few heads from nearby tables. "Oh my God, that's it. Next time one dive-bombs me, I’m yelling, ‘This is for my friend—you know what you did!’”

Your laughter echoed hers, and for a moment, the weight both of you carried—hers from ghosts of the past, yours from whatever life had thrown at you—lifted. Because somehow, crude jokes and ridiculous stories were the best kind of therapy.