you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips as you glare at the mirror. your curls are extra unruly today. not cooperating, not falling right, doing that weird frizz thing you hate. you’ve been tugging at strands, trying to flatten them down, but nothing’s working.

abby’s behind you, half dressed and drying her hands from washing up. she glances over, eyes narrowing slightly at your expression.

“what’s wrong?” she asks, crossing the room.

“my hair,” you grumble, not looking at her. “it looks like shit. i can’t get it to do anything. i’m just gonna throw it up.”

you reach for a tie, but before you can twist it around your hair, abby steps behind you and gently takes your wrist, stopping you.

“hey,” she says, voice low and steady. “don’t.”

you frown, confused. “why?”

she leans in, brushing a few curls back from your face. “i love your hair.”

you scoff, not believing it. “you don’t have to lie.”

“i’m not lying,” she says firmly, kneeling behind you now so she’s eye level with your reflection. “your curls are beautiful. they’re wild and soft and—fuck, they’re you. i love when they’re messy. i love when they frame your face. i love waking up with them all over my shoulder.”

your breath hitches a little at her honesty. “abby…”

“don’t ‘abby’ me,” she murmurs, resting her chin on your shoulder. “i know you get frustrated with it sometimes. but i need you to know, every time you try to hide it, i miss it. miss you.”

she tugs gently on a curl, watching it spring back, and grins. “this? this is one of my favorite things about you.”