The first light of Los Angeles spilled through the blinds, painting the tiny dorm room in gold. Emma Whitaker stirred awake to the familiar squeak of pipes and the distant hum of traffic. The dorm had seen better days, and so had she, she thought.
Her textbooks were stacked in precarious towers; her coffee mug sat cold on the desk, forgotten. Across the room, Sophie stood by the window, swirling her coffee in a small porcelain cup.
“Big exam day,” Sophie said, her voice teasing. “I dreamt you forgot your calculator.”
Emma chuckled.
“I dreamt I graduated and never had to touch one again.”
Emma and Sophie couldn’t have been more different. Emma was meticulous, practical, the kind of person who sorted receipts by color and memorized interest tables. Sophie was spontaneous, beautiful in a way that made strangers smile, with a laugh that could fill a room.
They’d met during freshman orientation, two girls far from home sharing an umbrella that collapsed the first week of Santa Ana winds. By the end of that first month, they were inseparable.
They endured cold nights eating instant noodles, shared couches with broken springs, and whispered dreams of the future from rooftops. “I’ll open a tiny shop,” Sophie said.
“Handmade soaps, something real.”
“And I’ll manage people’s money,” Emma said, smiling. “Someone has to keep your mess organized.”
Years passed in deadlines, internships, and late-night coffee runs. Graduation day came with caps and gowns, applause, and tears.
Emma moved to San Francisco for her first accounting job; Sophie stayed in Portland, closer to family. They texted regularly at first, weekly, then monthly, until a Tuesday call changed everything.
“Emma… my father—he’s sick. Heart problem.
The storm destroyed the roof. Mom’s house is soaked. I… I don’t know what to do,” Sophie said, voice trembling.
Emma pictured the old clapboard house Sophie had shown her in photos.
“How much do you need?”
“Eight thousand,” Sophie whispered. “I’ll pay you back in a year.”
Emma’s savings barely reached that number. She hesitated, then opened her banking app.
“Send me your details.”
“Seriously?” Sophie asked.
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.”
There was silence, then a soft, broken laugh. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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