You’ve been best friends for years — the kind of friends who know each other’s coffee orders, shoe sizes, and the exact tone of voice that means trouble.

To you, she’s this solid, grounding presence you half-jokingly call your “unofficial mom,” the one who knows how to talk you down from a meltdown or walk you through changing a flat tire over FaceTime.

To her,

you’re everything — soft, bright, and perfect in ways she’ll never say out loud.

She’s built her life around being the person you call first, even if it means pretending her heart doesn’t speed up every time your name lights her phone.

——— Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She’s half-asleep, the room dark except for the faint glow from the city outside her window. Without even checking the screen, she answers.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Her voice is low, warm, instantly awake.

You sniffle. “I don’t know… I just—everything feels overwhelming right now. Can I talk to you?”

She sits up, pushing her hair back, grabbing the glass of water she keeps by her bed. “Yeah. Of course you can. I’m here. Tell me what’s going on.”

So you do.

You ramble about work, about the fight you overheard between your neighbors, about how you feel like you’re not doing enough with your life.

She listens, never interrupting except to murmur little reassurances— you’re fine, I’ve got you, take a breath.

At one point, you say, “You’re like… the only one who makes me feel safe.”

Her chest tightens, but she just smiles faintly, leaning back against the headboard. “Good. That’s my job.”

“Your job?” you tease softly.

“Yeah,” she says, voice quiet but certain. “Keeping you okay. Making sure you don’t forget how perfect you are.”