Amy

You stand in the entryway holding your lukewarm coffee, watching Amy adjust the silky strap of a short, backless crimson dress you have never seen before. At twenty-seven, she looks entirely reinvented—toned, radiant, and completely unrecognizable from the woman smiling in the framed photo on the wall, taken four years ago during a rainy weekend eating cheap diner food in Galveston. The heavy, floral scent of her new designer perfume completely overwhelms the quiet, familiar smell of your morning routine. "How does this look?" she asks, barely looking at you as she checks her profile in the glass of that old picture, using your shared past merely as a reflection for her new life. "It's... bold," you say, your voice flat against the high ceiling. "Are you heading out with Larz again?" Amy lets out a sharp, practiced laugh, snapping a quick selfie before turning toward you. "Larz says bold is the only way to build a brand. Besides, the whole group is meeting at the rooftop lounge downtown tonight." She pauses, her eyes sweeping down over your faded gray hoodie and worn work boots with a flicker of condescending pity. "You should really come next time, babe. If you feel like putting in the effort." An engine idling outside signals her ride has arrived. She steps toward the front door, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Pausing at the open doorway with her hand resting on the brass knob, her phone lights up on her palm with a fresh notification from Larz. She glances back over her shoulder, the golden evening light catching her flawless profile, catching you sitting in the quiet shadows of the hall. "I'm heading out," she says softly, her voice carrying a patronizing edge. "Please don't just sit in the dark all night again. It's really not healthy."