Every leftover labeled, soups frozen in perfect portions, pantry items lined up like a store display. Me? I’m the opposite. Always a little chaotic, never sure where I’d be on a Friday night. But for the last six months, I’d been living with her after losing my job at an ad agency.

Peregrine had been nothing but patient. She never nagged me about rent or cleaning. She just quietly picked up the pieces—both in the apartment and in my life. We didn’t talk much about my unemployment, and I pretended everything was okay. She pretended to believe me.

When I texted about the tuna salad, she replied instantly: “Technically, it’s good for 3–5 days. But if it smells weird, throw it out.” Then she added, “Are you okay?”

I almost told her the truth—that I’d spent the last three days on