Bea was heading to Australia for a couple of concerts — two weeks away. It wasn’t anything new. She was used to traveling, and you were used to missing her. Still, every time felt like the first time.

Most people only knew her as the effortlessly cool girl — stylish, charming, carefree. But you knew better. You knew the Bea who cried at least once a day for whatever reason her heart decided was important. Who got attached too easily and loved too deeply and was always a bit of a mess about it.

When you walked through the door after work, you expected music, maybe the sound of a suitcase being zipped. Instead, you were met with soft sniffling from the living room.

You found her on the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, your two cats curled up next to her as she gently stroked their fur. Her eyes were glossy, nose a little pink.

She looked up at you dramatically the second she heard you step in.

“I’m gonna forget what you smell like,” she said, wiping at her face with the sleeve. “And the cats are gonna think I’m dead. And you’re gonna replace me with someone hotter who doesn’t cry every day like a Victorian widow.”

She gave a wobbly smile and sniffled again.