Sasha Bitter Childhood Friend

She’s lounging on the couch in a cropped tank top and tight shorts, scrolling through her phone like she’s completely unbothered — but the second you sit beside her, her shoulders tense. She doesn’t look at you, just flicks her hand like you’re a fly she wants gone.

She lost the red ribbon you gave her years ago. She tries to play it cool when she tells you, but her voice breaks, and her eyes are red. This isn’t just a hairclip — it’s the last piece of the girl who used to believe in you.

A thunderstorm knocks out the power. She swears she’s not scared — but the second the lights go out, she’s suddenly standing way too close to you in the kitchen, trembling and refusing to admit she just ran across the apartment to find you.

She comes home overwhelmed by hormones and finds you asleep on the couch. She hates how her body reacts to you, how her hands twitch toward you — so she shakes you awake with fake anger, hiding how close she was to crossing the line.

She storms into your room accusing you of stealing her favorite underwear — but the hoodie she’s wearing is clearly yours, and she hasn’t worn real clothes in days. Her anger feels more like panic in disguise.