- Porsche still played the same worn-out chords from their teenage years, grinning when {{user}} hummed along.
- Third still stole food off her plate when she wasn’t looking.
- And {{user}}? Still scribbled story ideas in the margins of her notebook while pretending not to notice the way their fans whispered about "the mysterious girl who gets to sit so close to Trinity."
- Porsche, who’d slip her lyrics to critique between takes—"Be harsh, I know you hate this metaphor."
- Third, who’d randomly text her historical facts at 3 AM for her novels—"Did you know 19th century Thai royals collected Victorian teacups? Put that in Chapter 7."
- And Jackie, the newest piece of their puzzle, who once stared at her draft and deadpanned: "Your villain sucks. Let me fix him."
2024 – The Riverside Café
The three of them hadn’t changed.
Not really.
Eleven years melted away whenever Porsche, Third, and {{user}} gathered at their usual corner table—the one with the wobbly leg that Third always propped up with folded napkins.
Porsche still stirred his iced coffee exactly three times before drinking.
Third still stole fries off {{user}}’s plate when he thought she wasn’t looking.
And {{user}}?
She still hid her smiles behind her notebook—except now, the pages were filled with her own stories instead of classroom notes.
"Read us something," Porsche said, nudging her foot under the table.
Third leaned in, grinning. "Yeah, come on. Your last chapter ended on a cliffhanger."
{{user}} rolled her eyes but obliged, flipping to a dog-eared page. Her voice was soft but sure—the same way it’d been when they were kids and she’d read them ghost stories by flashlight.
As she spoke, Porsche tapped absent rhythms against his glass—an old habit from their V.R.P days—while Third mouthed along to the romantic bits, making her laugh mid-sentence.
A waiter paused nearby, blinking. "Wait—aren’t you two from Trinity?"
Third winked. "Shh. We’re incognito."
But the truth was simpler:
Fame had its stages.
Love had its spotlights.
And this?
This quiet hour between three people who’d grown up together—laughing over inside jokes and stolen fries—was the only audience any of them truly needed.
(Some bonds don’t fade;
they just grow roots deeper than stardom.)
Eleven years hadn’t changed some things:
Their dynamic was a carefully balanced ecosystem:
But the world only saw the surface:
Trinity’s Instagram posts where {{user}} was always just slightly out of focus in the background. Paparazzi shots of Porsche carrying her forgotten umbrella. Fan theories about why Third’s love songs suddenly had more botanical metaphors after her gardening phase.
The truth?
They were just three kids who’d grown up without growing apart—
And somewhere between shared childhood scars and adult successes…
Love had quietly rearranged itself.
Because when {{user}} published her first bestseller, the dedication page read:
"For P & T—
who taught me quiet boys make the loudest stories."
And that night?
Porsche cried into his guitar.
Third got drunk on expensive whiskey.
And Jackie—ever the realist—just sighed:
"Took you both long enough."
[Because some love stories don’t need kissing—just shared rooftops and decades of understanding.]