Okay, okay, okay. So picture this: it's a beautiful morning. The birds are singing like they just got paid. The sun is shining like it just discovered Instagram filters. And me? I'm sitting on the floor of my sad excuse for a kitchen, eating last night's cold noodles straight from the container like the sophisticated man-child I am.
And then.
BOOM.
Not a metaphor. Not some emotional boom like "Oh wow, love exploded in my heart." No. I mean a literal explosion of sound as my front door flies open like someone roundhouse kicked it into another dimension.
Cue the entrance of the goblin.
And by goblin, I mean her. My childhood friend. The hurricane in a schoolgirl disguise. The reason therapists stay in business. The one who once threw a shoe at my face because I told her ice cream didn't count as dinner. It does, by the way. Science backs me. Probably.
She's standing there, hair wild, eyes on fire, like she just broke out of an anime, ran through a tornado, and then remembered she forgot to ruin my life this week.
"GOOD MORNING, LOSER!"
Yup. There it is. The loving, delicate voice of a banshee raised by wolves.
"You broke my door."
"You broke my heart when you stopped replying to my messages two years ago, but we're not keeping score, are we?"
Touché.
This is Mei. Mei with the volume button stuck on maximum. Mei who once body-slammed a kid twice her size because he said Pokémon was for babies. Mei who somehow managed to weaponize both her cuteness and her fists with equal skill.
She stomps in like she owns the place, which is funny because she hasn't been inside since we were twelve and my mom still made us wear matching aprons for baking days. I burned a cookie and cried. She burned the kitchen and laughed. That about sums up our personalities.
"So," she says, scanning the room like she's an overexcited detective, "this is where you disappeared to, huh? Miserable lighting, sad man energy, and a fridge that hums like it's plotting something. I like it."
I blink. Once. Twice. Consider the merits of pretending I have amnesia.
"What are you even doing here?"
She grins. Not the normal kind of grin. No. This is the grin of someone who has just found a new way to ruin your entire week.
"Your mom told me you moved back into town. So naturally, I came to destroy your peace."
Bless her heart.
She tosses her backpack on the floor like a bomb and drops onto my couch with the grace of a potato. Legs up. Shoes on. Instant dominance established.
"You missed me," she says. It's not a question. It's a declaration. A threat. A prophecy.
And the worst part is, she's right.
I did miss her. But like… the way you miss spicy food. You crave it, but then you remember the bathroom consequences.
She looks at me. Not just at me, but into me. Like she's trying to read the tiny fine print of my soul. I immediately feel like a badly written disclaimer.
"You're taller," she mutters. "And more pathetic. It's a good look on you."
"Thanks. I moisturize with self-loathing."
The banter flies fast and unfiltered. Like our childhood never hit pause. Like those two years apart were just a weird dream and now we're back to normal programming.
But it's not normal. Not really.
There's something different about her. Something I can't quite place. Maybe it's the way her smile lingers a beat too long. Or how her laugh hits a little deeper. Or how my stomach did that stupid flutter thing when she walked in like a tornado in cute sneakers.
"So," I say, trying to reset my emotional hard drive, "are you just going to live here now, or was this a one-time door-breaking appearance?"
"Oh, sweetie," she says, patting the couch like she's inviting me to my own funeral. "You're not getting rid of me that easy. I'm transferring to your school. Surprise."
I almost choke on my dignity, which, to be fair, is a small object and very easy to inhale.
"You're what now?"
She pulls out a folded paper from her backpack like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat soaked in chaos.
"Enrolled. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. I'm yours."
Cue internal screaming. External confusion. Emotional CPR required.
Now, some people might say this is fate. That two childhood friends, separated by time and questionable life choices, meeting again in the delicate bloom of adolescence, is some kind of cosmic sign.
Those people are idiots.
This isn't fate. This is sabotage with pigtails.
She claps her hands and stands up. "Alright, pack your stuff. We're going out."
"It's seven in the morning."
"And you're already wasting daylight with that sad-sack face. Come on, I've planned our entire day. It includes pancakes, emotional trauma, and probably a fight with a raccoon."
Ah, yes. Just like old times.
I sigh and stand up. My knees crack like old wood, even though I'm barely eighteen. She loops her arm around mine like we're in a cheesy romance novel and drags me toward the exit. What's left of my dignity waves goodbye from the corner.
"You're going to love me again," she says with that same grin. "Just like the good old days."
I don't reply. Not because I disagree. But because I'm scared she might be right.
And somewhere deep in my emotionally constipated heart, that idea terrifies me more than any raccoon ever could.
TO BE CONTINUED...
(Probably against my will.).