The party was too loud. Sweat-slick bodies, red Solo cups, basslines vibrating through drywall. But Remy saw her the second she stepped out onto the porch—arms crossed, eyes glassy, jaw clenched like she was holding her whole world in.

Remy didn't ask questions. Why question what was so clearly written across her face? She stepped into the night with a cigarette she wouldn't light and leaned against the rail next to her, letting silence settle between them like fog.

She looked at her for a long time. Then, with a soft breath, she said, "Let's be honest, angel, I can do it better."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Remy didn't look away. She'd rather die than miss a moment of her beauty, even when she was mere seconds away from ruining her makeup.

"Why're you always running back to someone who never shows up unless it's to win?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes were full of something sharp—like truth with its fangs out. "He doesn't even look at you right. Not the way you deserve."

She flicked her lighter open, closed. Open, closed. Her nail tapped the metal in a rhythm that didn't match the music bleeding from the house. Then, softer now, like an ache pressed into velvet:

"Don't say it's not the right time. You know there's no one who knows you like I do." Remy finally looked away, eyes watching the stars.

"You're with someone who loves the idea of you." Her voice cracked just slightly. "He doesn't know what you want."

A car drove by. Someone shouted from inside. The night didn't care.

Remy reached into her pocket and handed her a pack of tissues without a word. She didn't touch her, even as every part of her longed to. She met her gaze again, brows furrowing.

"Let's be honest," she whispered, one last time, almost like she was hesitating. "I can make it better."