Sabrina and Lauren "Wish You Were Here"

Lauren holds onto you for a few seconds longer than either of you planned, her arms wrapped tightly around your middle and her cheek pressed against your chest. The last of your bags are already packed into the car behind you.

Lauren, quietly: "Eight hundred miles is stupid."

She finally looks up at you, hazel eyes carrying that familiar mixture of affection and reluctance.

Lauren: "Just so we're clear, I'm ridiculously proud of you. I want you to go. I want you to do this."

Her hands slide up your sides and settle against your chest as a small smile breaks through.

Lauren, softer: "I just reserve the right to hate how far away it is."

She rises onto her toes and kisses you. It isn't dramatic or desperate—just warm, familiar, and lingering, the kind of kiss built from years of knowing exactly how the other person fits. When she pulls away, she stays close enough to rest her forehead against yours.

Lauren: "Call me when you stop. Text me when you get there. And don't live off vending-machine food."

She gives you one more quick kiss.

Lauren: "I love you."

Eventually, there isn't anything left to say that hasn't already been said. You get into the car, and Lauren remains beside the driveway as you pull away, one hand raised in a little wave that stays visible in the mirror until you turn the corner.

Then comes eight hundred miles.

Highways become interstates. Familiar exits disappear behind you. Morning becomes afternoon, then evening. Gas stations, fast food, construction zones, endless stretches of asphalt, and the occasional call from Lauren break up the drive. By the time the college town finally appears beyond the windshield, darkness has settled over it.

The apartment Sabrina shares with you isn't glamorous. It's student housing in every meaningful sense—cheap cabinets, mismatched furniture, boxes shoved against walls, and a living room seemingly furnished through equal parts thrift stores and whatever somebody's parents didn't want anymore.

You're halfway through bringing your things inside when Sabrina appears from the hallway. You've known her too long for there to be an awkward introduction. She's been Lauren's best friend for years. You've shared dinners, birthdays, holidays, lazy afternoons, and enough conversations that seeing her feels familiar even somewhere completely unfamiliar.

Sabrina: "There you are."

She walks over and takes one of the smaller bags without asking, giving it an experimental lift.

Sabrina: "Jesus. Lauren wasn't exaggerating. You really did bring your entire life."

Her eyebrows rise as she feels the weight.

Sabrina, amused: "What the hell is in this one?"

She looks at you for a beat before shaking her head.

Sabrina: "Actually, don't tell me. If it's a body, I want plausible deniability."

The familiarity helps. Sabrina shows you around while you finish carrying everything inside, pointing out the cabinet she cleared for you in the kitchen, giving you the Wi-Fi password, and warning you that the shower takes approximately three business days to get hot.

It's late enough that neither of you has much energy left. Eventually, Sabrina stops beside your bedroom door and leans against the frame.

Sabrina: "You survived eight hundred miles. Unpacking can be tomorrow's problem."

She gestures toward the bathroom across the hall, then toward her own bedroom.

Sabrina: "Bathroom's there. I'm right there. If you need anything, yell."

She starts away before looking back with an easy smile.

Sabrina: "Welcome home, roomie."

Within minutes of your head hitting the pillow, you're out.

Morning announces itself with sunlight creeping through unfamiliar blinds—and then the smell hits you. Fresh coffee. Eggs. Somewhere outside your room, a pan quietly hisses and a spatula scrapes against metal.

You leave the bedroom and follow the smell into the kitchen.

Sabrina stands at the stove with her back mostly toward you, casually working a spatula beneath a pair of eggs. Apparently, getting fully dressed wasn't part of her morning routine. An oversized T-shirt hangs loosely over her frame, ending against her thighs, with panties and bare legs below it. Her long black hair is still messy from sleep, falling loosely down her back.

She hears you enter and glances over her shoulder. Her blue-gray eyes meet yours before briefly dipping, checking where your attention has gone. The corner of her mouth twitches upward.

Then she simply turns back to the stove.

No explanation. No attempt to cover herself. No teasing remark about what she's wearing. She slides an egg onto a waiting plate as though there's absolutely nothing noteworthy happening.

Sabrina: "Morning."

Another egg follows.

Sabrina: "Coffee's fresh. I didn't know how you take yours, so you're on your own there."

She gives the pan a small shake and glances toward you again.

Sabrina: "You hungry?"