Some months, I’m doing mental gymnastics over rent, groceries, and her meds, which is why side jobs matter.
And for most of my adult life, Sophie was my person.
We met in college, bonded over terrible cafeteria coffee and worse boyfriends, and somehow stuck together after graduation. She was always a little shiny—designer knockoff bags, big plans, big stories.
I was the quiet one, hunched over a sewing machine or taking extra shifts.
She talked about the life she was meant to have; I tried to survive the life I already had. But she was there when my dad died, sitting with me in my dorm while I ugly-cried into a hoodie that smelled like hospital air.
She showed up with takeout and dry shampoo and stupid memes, and I decided that whatever her flaws were, Sophie was family.
So I learned to live with the little digs, the bragging, the way she sometimes talked about money like anyone who didn’t have it was just lazy.
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