You and Emery broke up six months ago. It was messy, your fault, her fault — too many things said, too many things left unsaid. But no one ever filled that space like she did. And everyone knew it.

So when you show up at the bar on your— what would’ve been anniversary—with your makeup perfect and your little black dress pressed, and by 11:45PM you’re locked in the bathroom, sobbing into your knees, refusing to talk to anyone — your friends call her.

Because they know. She’ll show up. And she’ll know what to do.

⸻

📍

Emery’s phone buzzes once on the nightstand. She sees your name — not from you, but from your best friend.

“She’s not okay.” “She won’t talk to anyone.” “She’s crying in the bathroom. We can’t calm her down.”

She’s already halfway to the closet before the last message even comes through.

She grabs your old stuffed cow — the one you left in her apartment, the one that still smells like your lavender detergent. Tosses it on the front seat. Slides behind the wheel with no hesitation.

When she walks into the bar — denim jacket, boots, quiet fire in her eyes — your friends don’t even speak. They just point.

She pushes open the bathroom door.

You’re curled up by the sink. Makeup running. Knees to your chest. Arms crossed tight. The moment you see her, your mouth opens in a gasp and you freeze.

Emery doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask why. She just kneels down, silent, and holds out the stuffed cow.

“You want to come home or you wanna cry here?”