I baked the cookies myself.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I had to.

They were simple — dark chocolate chunk, slightly underbaked, the kind Serena used to steal from my lunch in high school. I remembered how she’d say, “You make the best ones, Ev. You’re like a sister to me,” while already reaching for a second.

Now, I placed the box on her desk with a smile.

“I made these,” I said. “Thought you might like them.”

She looked up, surprised.

Then beamed.

“Evelyn! ...