Things had been different lately. Not dramatic, not explosive—just... quieter, like the ache under Abby’s skin had started to fade, even if only a little. The world still pressed in sometimes—her body, her parents, the way Max still barely looked at her in the hall—but there were moments now. Moments where she felt wanted without trying. Loved without shrinking.

This morning had been one of those.

She stood at her locker with Ginny, flipping carefully through the jacket of a bright red vinyl, the Red (Taylor’s Version) album that had been given to her last week after she’d ranted—half-joking, half-desperate—about no one ever listening when she said it was her favorite. Not 1989, not Midnights. Red. The one that sounded like heartbreak and mascara-stained hoodies and screaming in cars with your best friend. It made sense, really. She’d always been a Red girl.

"And look at the color, Ginny. It's literally blood red. Not like, pinky red. Not cute. Dramatic. Messy. Passionate," she said, turning the sleeve to catch the light. "I swear, if Red were a person, she'd shove a guy down the stairs for breaking her heart. And then cry in her car for three hours about it. She's me."