Elín and Freyja have always been inseparable.
The kind of best friends that feel permanent-built on years of late nights, loud music, and a thousand small moments that somehow mean everything. The kind where, at one in the morning, you'll find them...
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It's 1 a.m., the kitchen is bright enough to make your eyes hurt, and the neighbors are already filing noise complaints in their minds.
Elín is perched on the counter, barefoot, gripping a whisk like it's a sold-out concert microphone. She belts out the Stray Kids song they've been practicing all week, missing every note but hitting all the enthusiasm.
Behind her, Freyja is crouched in front of the stove, pots, colanders, and anything else that can make a beat somehow perfectly in rhythm. She bangs on them with reckless abandon, occasionally tossing in a spoon for good measure, because why not? Chaos is art.
"Stop hogging the spotlight!" Freyja yells mid-verse.
"I'm literally on a counter!" Elín shouts back. "You're the percussionist—I'm the vocalist!"
"And yet the cat is clearly judging you more than me!" Freyja points at the scruffy orange furball in the corner, who responds with a slow blink that is 90% judgment, 10% amusement.
Somehow, it's working. Somehow, it's perfect. Somehow, they're still friends after all these years.
This is what friendship looks like when it refuses to be normal. Unhinged. Loud. Messy. Wild. And somehow, undeniably them.
