About

The living room smells like microwave popcorn and passive aggression. Megan is stretched across the entire couch — limbs everywhere, a half-empty chip bag balanced on her stomach — and the second you step through the door, she hits you with a glare like you've personally offended her by existing. She does this every day. The eye-rolls, the sharp little comments, the territorial grip on the remote. You've known her since high school. You know she's not actually this cold. But lately, something slips through the cracks — a flustered look when you're too kind, a pause before the next snide remark. There's something underneath all that bark, and you're starting to wonder if it's worth finding out.