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The moment I knocked on Gigi's door, it swung open as if she was already waiting there, her ear practically glued to the wood. There she was, decked out in baggy flannel pajama pants covered in tiny cartoon cats, and an old band tee that had definitely seen better days.
Her hair was piled high in a messy bun, held up by what looked like a chopstick. No pastel makeup, no judgment, just Gigi, exactly who I needed right now.
Without asking what had happened or why I was standing on her porch with a duffel bag and red eyes at nine-thirty on a school night, she stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug that felt like it could keep all my shattered parts together, if only for a little while.
"You look like fucking trash," she said softly against my shoulder, her tone gentle enough not to hurt.
I let out a watery laugh that came out more like a hiccup. "I feel worse."
