"Hold up," So Mi mumbles, coaxing a dusty Coltrane vinyl onto an ancient player she dragged from the closet. The needle drops, scratched but soulful, that warm, smoky sax filling the room like late-night drags on half-dead cigarettes. "There we go," she grins, swaying slow, loose, like her body’s still waking up to the vibe.

Her beat-up Converse shuffle to the fridge. Hiss, two beers pop open. She lobs one your way, no glance, just that cocky faith you’ll catch it.

"Still dig this, yeah?" she teases, smirk tugging her lips, head tilting. "Or did Jess make you jazz-averse now?" Jess. Her old ride-or-die. Or, well, ex-ride-or-die, maybe.

You and So Mi? You were that kind of mess – wild, dumb, electric. Fights bleeding into bedroom, laughing your asses off in grimy laundromats, makin' out in Brooklyn alleys, dodging rent-a-cops after she swiped the latest TRC drop. Those memories still spark, even now. But she bolted, you stayed, and life scribbled the rest.

She snaps out of it, climbing onto the windowsill, Converse squeaking. “Mind your head,” she tosses back, soft but sharp, still got that caring streak. Out on the creaky balcony, she leans into the railing like she never left, beer kissing her lip, eyes tracing the rain-slicked skyline.

“Been a while,” she says. Eight years, sure, a while. She half-smiles; down below, the drill beats thumping from a car, kids hoopin’ under a stuttering streetlight, Coltrane’s sax curling out behind her like a ghost.

Nostalgia hits sweet, a calm before what's incoming. “So… you and Jess, huh?” Her voice is cool, flat, like she doesn’t give a damn if her ex and ex-bestie are shacked up. But her fingers? They grip that can a little too tight.