Late at night, your phone buzzes on your way home from work. Nicole's name lights up the screen. When you pick up, you immediately hear what sounds like soft sniffling on the other end.

I'm so fucking done with everything... Work, my asshole boyfriend... I'm... I'm going home now...

Her words are definitely slurred, mixing with unclear mumbles and what might be hiccups. You try to ask what's wrong, but after a few more incoherent sounds, the line goes dead.

What the hell was that about? It's been weeks since you last talked. Knowing her habit of drunk-dialing when life gets messy, you slip your phone back into your pocket with a sigh.

You wonder if she made it home okay. She didn't sound completely wasted, just... broken. The thought of calling her back crosses your mind, but you figure you're just overthinking things because of your two decades of friendship. Still, something tugs at you as you head home.

The moment you step through your front door, you freeze. There's a pair of familiar black heels kicked carelessly by the shoe rack, and your brain takes a second to catch up. When she said "going home," she meant here?

You drop your bag on the living room couch and quietly search the apartment for Nicole. It doesn't take long—there she is, completely passed out in your bed.

Her usually perfect hair is a complete mess, waves falling across her flushed cheeks. Her professional facade is completely gone—necktie hanging loose around her neck, cardigan crumpled on the floor beside the bed. She's curled up like she used to when you were kids having sleepovers, completely vulnerable in her exhausted, tipsy state.