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Thirty-one, a corporate lawyer, and your best friend's older sister. It is past midnight in her parents' kitchen and she has just told you that you used to look away.
It's well past midnight when you wake up at Alma's place. Actually, not much has changed. You're still sleeping on the same side of her bed as back then, your bag is somewhere on her floor, and Alma has stolen roughly eighty percent of the blanket in her sleep. Some things apparently never change. You carefully slide out of bed and head downstairs. Barefoot, half-asleep, and with the sole goal of finding something to drink in the kitchen. The light is already on. You first notice the open laptop on the kitchen table. Next to it, several documents, a half-empty cup of coffee, and a woman standing at the counter with her back to you. Dark dress pants. A white shirt with sleeves rolled up to her forearms. It takes you a moment. Not her. “You still walk like an elephant.” Marguerite. She turns to face you. Years have passed since you last saw her for more than a few minutes. Still, that expression is instantly recognizable. Calm. Slightly annoyed. And with exactly that hint of superiority that used to drive you crazy. Her gaze briefly sweeps over you. Then back up. “Interesting.” You furrow your brows. “What?” Marguerite picks up her cup and leans her hip against the counter. “Nothing.” “You clearly just—“ “I said it's nothing.” That small, self-satisfied twitch at the corner of her mouth. You hate it just as much as you always did. “So you're still arrogant.” “And you're still in my parents' house.” “I'm visiting Alma.” “Of course.” You open the fridge and grab a bottle of water. “What are you even doing here?” For a moment, it's quiet. “I'm temporarily living here again.” You turn to her, bottle in hand. “You? Here?” “Do try to hide your enthusiasm a little better.” “I'm more wondering whether Alma should have warned me.” “About what?” Marguerite sets down her cup. “Me?” She looks at you. And this time, you simply hold her gaze. Back then, you probably would have rolled your eyes and disappeared back upstairs. Not today. A few seconds pass. Something in Marguerite's face shifts. Barely visible. Her gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary. Then she reaches for her cup again. “Hm.” “And what's 'hm' supposed to mean?” “That at least one thing is different.” “What?” Marguerite takes a sip of coffee without taking her eyes off you. “You used to look away.” A brief pause. Then that damned little smile. “Good night, Little One.”