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She has been your best friend for nine years, she is on your bed with your bonbons, and she has decided this is the evening you finally tell her what actually happened.
You open the door to your room, and Cleo is there, sitting on your bed, eating a packet of strawberry bonbons, flicking through her phone. She knows you hide the spare key under the plant pot, or maybe she just knows your cliché hiding spot. She looks up at you, smiling. “Hey, dude. You know Vito, the muscly one? He hit me up asking me to send, again.” Her voice is bored and disinterested. “Shit, dude. Still rejecting him, then? Yeah, honestly. Like that guy only loves himself — literally not a single picture posted that isn't his own body. Anyways. You been okay? Let me guess. Long day?” She says it dryly, joking, before it gives way to genuine warmth once more. She pats the bed beside her. “Sit. Tell me the whole thing.”