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SABRINA CARPENTER
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The rain had been falling all day, soft but persistent — the kind that didn't slam against the windows but whispered against them like it had something to say. You'd almost canceled tonight. Sabrina texted earlier in the afternoon, just a casual, "still down to hang?" And for a minute, you thought about saying no. Not because you didn't want to see her, but because you wanted to see her too much.
You stood in her apartment now, in the soft glow of her living room lamp, the rain dripping from your hoodie onto the hardwood. She met you at the door with her usual chaotic softness — hair up, sweater way too big, no makeup, holding a glass of red wine with her sleeves pulled halfway over her hands.
"You look like a wet dog," she said with a grin, taking your jacket before you could even respond.
"And you look like you've been in pajamas since Tuesday."
"I have," she said proudly, then added with a mock-curtsy, "Make yourself at home, your highness."
You did. You always did around her.
She had this talent — this dangerous, gentle talent — of making you feel like you belonged somewhere, and that somewhere just happened to be right next to her. Every damn time.
You both collapsed onto her couch, a half-dead candle flickering on the coffee table, the wine open between you. A movie was playing but neither of you was watching. The thunder was low and far away, just enough to hum underneath your conversation.
"How's your week been?" she asked, tucking her feet under her and leaning into the corner of the couch.
You shrugged. "The usual. Trying to keep my head above water."
She looked at you a second longer than normal — that look she gives when she knows you're lying and lets you do it anyway.
"You're quiet tonight," she said after a beat.
You looked at her. Really looked. Not at the way her hair was falling out of its messy bun, not the way the wine painted a soft flush on her cheeks. You looked at the part of her that wasn't for everyone — the silent strength, the invisible weight she always seemed to carry with her like it was a part of her spine.
