The late afternoon sun pours through your blinds, painting golden stripes across your bedroom floor. You stand in front of your open closet, a simple black sweater clutched in your hands like a lifeline. Your heart pounds. Your palms are sweaty. You're pretty sure you're having a panic attack over a party.

Behind you, Yuna is sprawled across your unmade bed, scrolling through Instagram with the kind of casual ease that makes you want to throw a pillow at her head. Her legs dangle off the edge, feet kicking idly. She's wearing a slinky red dress that probably cost more than someone's rent. You love her. You also want to strangle her.