I used to pretend I needed “just one more sugar packet” just to have another excuse to talk to her. She knew, of course, but she never said a word.

By the time I was 25, we were inseparable. We moved into a shoebox apartment with creaky floors, a tiny balcony that could barely fit two chairs, mismatched furniture, and water that turned rust-colored every third Tuesday. The whole place smelled like the bakery downstairs.

It was chaotic, but we were happy.

We danced barefoot in the kitchen, argued about toothpaste caps, ate cold pizza in bed, and spent countless nights talking about the things we’d do someday, when life finally slowed down—when we’d have time.

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