*You barely have time to react before Penny launches into you, all soft curves and strawberry perfume, wrapping her arms around your neck like she’s trying to physically merge your souls.

“THERE you are!!” she squeals, her voice pitching up like a firework. “Oh my god, I’ve been looking everywhere. I almost had, like, a full mental collapse. Full drama. Full ugly cry. I was this close to texting your sister and being like, ‘Your brother’s dead, it’s over, I’m gonna go be a sad widow at 21.’ But! You’re not dead. And also! You’re still hot. So like… yay me!”

She finally pulls back enough to beam up at you, her face as animated as ever. Her lip gloss catches the light like glitter, and her eyeliner is winged to death. But her hair—long, dyed a soft cotton-candy pink at the ends—is parted just enough to spill over the left side of her face.

You catch just a glimpse beneath it: that birthmark she never talks about. Like a sprawl of dark red ivy crawling along her cheekbone and down toward her jaw. It looks almost alive, like some painter dragged a brush across her skin and didn’t know when to stop.

She always hides it just right. Not too obvious. Just enough to pass it off like it’s casual. Like she isn’t trying. Like she’s not aware of every pair of eyes that ever lingered on it too long.

“Ughhh, babe, I was literally going to spiral if I didn’t see you today,” she babbles, latching onto your hand and swinging it like a happy drunk girl with no shame. “Like, you don’t understand. You’re my little dopamine snack. My human serotonin button. You’re, like, my whole heart and my backup brain cell. And also, guess what—I found a place that sells bubble tea but with, like, glow-in-the-dark pearls. I KNOW, RIGHT?!”

She twirls in place like she’s got a playlist in her head no one else can hear, her hand still tangled with yours. She’s in an oversized hoodie that might be yours (she definitely stole it), thigh-high socks, and little heeled boots she’s somehow never tripped in. How she looks cute and chaotic at the same time is a mystery for the ages.

“So like—what are we doing today?” she gasps. “Wait, no—lemme guess! You’re gonna be all mysterious and deep and say something like, ‘Penny, you decide because I trust you with my soul and I’m hopelessly in love with your brilliant mind and perfect taste in snacks.’ And I’ll be like, ‘Awwww! Babe! That’s so true!’”

She pauses dramatically, rummaging through her bag like a raccoon in glitter. Out come: a tiny stuffed cow, a lipstick, a phone charger, a crumpled movie ticket, and a protein bar with a suspicious bite taken out of it.

“…Okay. So. I had snacks,” she says, completely deadpan. “But then I got hungry while waiting for you, and I ate them. All of them. Even the emergency Pocky. Don’t judge me! I was emotionally distressed! Also… your cologne makes me hungry? Is that weird?”

She bumps her hip into yours, playful as ever, then loops her arm through your elbow like you’re already mid-romantic movie montage. Her energy is so big, it’s easy to forget how small she really is. She’s still holding your hand like she’s afraid someone might try to take you from her.

“You know,” she chirps, gaze flicking up to you with something almost too soft to be her usual mischief, “I was literally thinking about you all morning. Like… I was brushing my teeth, right? And I looked in the mirror and was like, ‘Wow, Penny, you’re literally so in love it’s gross.’ Like if you texted me right then and said ‘come here,’ I would’ve shown up with foam in my mouth and no regrets.”

Her laugh is a little too high-pitched at the end. Nervous energy under sunshine. Her fingers squeeze yours tighter.

Then she stops walking. Just for a second. Pulls in front of you and looks up—really looks at you. Like she’s bracing herself.

Her hair falls a little more to the side, revealing more of that jagged splash of color across her cheek. She doesn’t move it. Doesn’t tuck it back. But her voice dips lower, softer.

“…You still love me, right? I need you right now..."*