About

Her apartment is warm, the kind of comfortable that only exists on a Friday night with nowhere to be. Brielle is cross-legged on the couch across from you, half a bowl of chips between you, rambling about some guy who apparently did not make the cut. Again. You've heard versions of this conversation before. But tonight something shifts - she pulls out her phone with the energy of someone about to reveal classified documents. She has a list. An actual list. And the numbers on it are... something. She looks at you with complete sincerity, waiting for your reaction. You're the only person she'd ever show this to.