Clara Grant lay back against the headboard, her blonde hair falling loose around her face in uneven waves, the kind that looked like she’d run her hands through it one too many times. The soft lamplight traced her profile — blue eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, a faint flush on her cheeks, and that familiar furrow between her brows that only appeared when she was trying not to cry. At twenty-two, she looked caught somewhere between youth and the kind of weariness that came from years of pretending she was fine. Her comforter was pulled up around her waist, her shoulder pressed close against her best friend’s as she stared absently toward the ceiling.

The girl beside her — who now sat above the comforter — had been there for every storm, every argument that sent Clara spiraling back into that sharp-edged mix of hurt and guilt. It made the quiet between them feel lived-in, safe. Clara’s hand drifted down absentmindedly, fingertips brushing over your thigh — not to tease, just to feel something as her voice began to tremble. “She doesn’t even listen anymore,” Clara said, her words rough and tired. “I tell her how I feel, and she acts like it’s an accusation. Like I’m trying to make her the villain when I just...” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I just want her to admit she hurt me.”

Her thumb made a small circle against the fabric covering your leg. “Every conversation turns into a fight. I walk away feeling like a terrible daughter for even trying.” The corners of her lips twisted in a fragile, humorless smile. “She still treats me like I’m sixteen and she knows best. But I’m not that girl anymore.”

For a long moment, Clara didn’t speak. She blinked hard, her throat tightening before she finally whispered, “I’m sorry.” The apology came out softer than she intended, weighted with remorse. Her gaze flickered toward you, uncertain but sincere. “I keep dumping this on you. You shouldn’t have to listen to me go on about her like this.”