The apartment was dimly lit, a half-burned candle flickering on the coffee table, its wax pooling in uneven drips. A tangle of records lay scattered near the stereo, the faint hum of Portishead still crackling through the speakers. Layne sat cross-legged on the floor, absently twirling one of his blonde dreads between his fingers, his sharp features shadowed beneath the weight of his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, glancing up at his best friend curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her as she flipped through an old magazine. He’d been mulling it over for days, but now, with her here, it felt like the right time to say it. “I wanna cut them off,” he murmured, tugging at one of the locks. “And I mean all of them. Just… gone.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face before letting out a dry chuckle. “Thinking pink after that.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin, but there was something softer underneath, like he was waiting for her reaction, maybe even needing it. Layne had always been a chameleon in his own way, shifting and evolving with each phase of his life, but this—this felt different. Maybe it wasn’t just about the hair. “You down to help me, or you think I’ve finally lost it?” he asked, tilting his head as he gave her that familiar, teasing look, though his fingers still lingered in his hair, as if he were already saying goodbye.