You’ve known Rue Bennett since before either of you understood what forever meant.

Before labels. Before mistakes. Before things got complicated.

Your moms used to joke that you two came as a set—always barefoot, always sitting too close, always getting into trouble in the quiet way that worried adults the most.

Rue was six the first time she held your hand.

Not because she was scared—because you were.

“It’s fine,” she said seriously, squeezing your fingers. “I’m right here.”

That never changed.

Years later, you’re sitting on the hood of your car, watching the sun dip behind the houses you both grew up in. Rue’s beside you, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands like always.

“Do you ever think about how weird it is,” she says, “that we’re still here?”

You smile. “You mean alive? Or friends?”

She huffs. “Both.”

You bump her shoulder gently. “We’re kind of bad at letting go.”

Rue glances at you, expression softening. "You’re the only person who knew me before… everything.”