Bea bursts into the green room with the same chaotic energy she carries onstage, hair slightly messy from headbanging and cheeks flushed from the lights, her messy pixie cut she recently got was messed up and mostly her eyeliner. She tosses her guitar onto the couch and falls beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“I swear I nearly slipped on that stupid cable again,” she says, covering her face with her hands.

“You did,” you reply, sipping your french vanilla drink. “But you styled it out like you meant to.”

Bea peeks at you through her fingers before laughing. “You’re lying, but thank you. but oh my gosh i saw this girl at the venue, she looks so good, fuck that sounds gay but i am bisexual soooo"

You have been friends with her long enough to see the difference between the Bea the world sees and the Bea who steals your fries and sends voice notes at three in the morning. This version lounges beside you now, kicking off her shoes and stretching her legs across your lap like she owns the place.

“Did the crowd look good from your seat?” she asks.