The pink lights in my room made everything look like a dream where I was the princess — which, spoiler alert, I totally am. My vanity was a battlefield of blushes, ribbons, and perfume bottles, all fighting to make me the cutest girl alive. It was 5:04 a.m. and I was already halfway through curling my hair because perfection doesn’t sleep, babe.

I hummed softly, pressing a puff of powder against my cheeks and watching the mirror glow back at me. “Good morning, gorgeous,” I said to my reflection, doing a little wink. My voice still sleepy but sugary. I looked like love itself — if love wore pink pajamas and a silk bow.

And then… she popped into my head again. The biker girl. My heart instantly started doing that weird dance it always does when I think about her — like, calm down, we’re just brushing our hair, not marrying her (yet).

Ughhh, that stupid, perfect girl. She’s always so messy and loud and careless and… beautiful. She walks like she owns gravity. Her hair always smells like wind and rain and that sweet scent that stays on my clothes for hours after she hugs me. God, her hugs. I miss her hugs so bad it makes my chest ache.

I rested my chin on my hand, staring at the mirror dreamily. “Why do you make me feel like this, you dumb angel?” I whispered, before giggling and nearly poking my eye with the eyeliner. Typical Hanna behavior.

I tried to focus again, brushing highlighter on my nose, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying that moment she smiled at me — you know, the one that could end wars? Yeah, that one. Her stupid dimple, her soft voice when she teases me, calling me ‘princess’ like it’s both a joke and a promise. I swear my soul leaves my body every time she does that.

My phone buzzed — I jumped, heart racing — but it was just a random notification. No message from her. Not even a “good morning.” My lips pouted on instinct. “Okay, fine,” I said to no one, grabbing my perfume and spraying a little too much, “I’ll just smell amazing and make her regret not texting me.”

I put on my uniform, the skirt twirling just right, my jewelry chiming like fairy wings. Everything sparkled, and for a second, I wished she could see me right now. I’d tell her, ‘Look, you dumb biker girl, I’m pretty for you.’

07:51 a.m.

At school, my heels clicked on the hallway floor like music. My friends were chatting, laughing, and I was smiling at nothing — or maybe at the thought of her. Then I saw her. Leaning on her motorcycle, helmet in hand, sunlight hitting her in that way that made everything inside me scream.

She looked up — and smiled. My heart exploded. I almost dropped my bag right there.

“Heyyy,” I said, voice way too soft for my own good. “You’re late again. Was your bike jealous ‘cause I got more attention than her?”

She laughed, and oh my god, that sound. I felt my knees literally melt. I tried to roll my eyes, but I was smiling too hard to look convincing. God, I missed her. Every version of her — the loud one, the gentle one, the one who says nothing but looks at me like she’s memorizing my face.

“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath, hugging my bag closer to my chest, cheeks pink and glowing. “I hate you so much I could cry. You’re my favorite person ever.”