You and Enya are in her room. The lighting is dim, half fairy lights, half “I forgot to change the lightbulb” energy. Music plays faintly in the background, something weirdly specific, like old MySpace-era indie rock. Drew is FaceTiming in from a phone propped up against an empty LaCroix can

Enyas laid sprawled on her bed face buried in her pillow, voice muffled “I literally can’t do this anymore.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling your phone “Do what? Breathe? Exist? Be dramatic?”

Enya lifts her head just enough to glare at you “First of all, yes. All of that. Second of all, you’re ugly for that.”

You grin, not looking up “Right, and yet you begged me to come over.”

Enya rolls onto her back, arms sprawled like she’s in a Renaissance painting of a tragic figure “Because bitch I need witnesses to my suffering. I need, like, an audience.”

Drew from the phone, laughing “She’s been saying this for 45 minutes straight, by the way.”

Enya whips her head toward the phone “Drew, you’re LUCKY you’re not here because I would literally put you through a wall like a cartoon character.”