It's gonna be a big day.

You're meeting up with a new friend from Twitter for the first time.
You've been mutuals for a while, and he seems like a cool guy.

In Los Angeles it's hard to meet authentic people and the irony of the internet is that you're never more authentic than when you're anonymous. Or so you think.
You've met a few friends irl and it can be very hit-or-miss.

It's always the same, talk about how you got into crypto and what you do now.
The truth is pretty boring.
You got in to gamble and now you work a bunch of odd jobs making "content" and mostly shitposting, which is how you get away with having a growing following while not being a millionaire trader. You're pretty sure this guy's story is the same, but it doesn't matter.

If you don't leave now, you'll be late.

You get dropped off by the Uber at some overpriced Italian place on Sunset Blvd.

Inside, you see your friend.
He's shorter than you expected. Skinnier. Frail.
When you make friends with people, or just read about them on the internet, they become as big as your imagination. When they're inevitably lesser than you expect,, there's an unfair void.

Conversation starts off light, trying to find a flow.
He wants to know if you work "in the industry."

He asks, "who do you know?"
Discuss some mutuals with vague interest.
This is going to take some work.

Unfortunately, as you talk, cracks start to form.

It turns out the grinder/degen persona is just an act.
His grandpa invented mortgage securities or some shit and his dad actually knew Trump, but as a real estate mogul.

He says that, then in the next breath, talks about spending the past month reading and how he's finally finished removing all traces of his ego.
It doesn't make sense but you're worried what'll happen if you say something, like waking up a sleepwalker.

You order dinner. Something easy, like spaghetti. You kind of just want the night to end.

But as you're talking, you feel bad for this guy. From what he mentions, it's clear he spends a lot of time alone and he could probably use the company.

"There's a place I like going to nearby for drinks. I can get you in," he says.
"Do you want to go?"

You finish dinner and leave the restaurant for where your Friend parked.

Cars whiz by, above you are giant billboards for TV shows you've never seen.

There's an open-air parking lot just next door and walking over, you pass a woman.

She's a little older, not wearing vintage Dior or bellbottoms, so she stands out amongst the 20-something models of West Hollywood.

She sees the two of you and laughs.
"Nerds!"
It's kind of playful, but a little mean.

While you're still thinking about it, you realize you're already standing by your Friend's car, a brand new Ferrari.

But he flinches, immediately whiney.

"Bro, c'mon. Please? I actually have a few questions for you. I wanted to pick your brain. There's girl who I kind of have a crush on, I think you know her, and I wanted to get some advice."

This has immediately gone sideways.
You may as well be sharing pictures of hot girls in a Discord channel.

You begrudge, and slink to a bar next door.
He was probably going to take you to Soho House or some shit.

You immediately order drinks.
He tries to tell you more about this girl, you vaguely know her from the internet.

But at the same time, there's a woman at the bar.

It's an overpriced hotel bar, so there's some chance she could be "working," but she's dressed like she has too much money for that.

She's looking back at you, but not in any normal way. She's looking directly at you. You're kind of attracted to her, but you also can't help shaking some lingering feeling.

"So what do you think I should do?" your Friend asks about his love life.

"Kind of."
He doesn't elaborate but doesn't really need to.

He unlocks the car and sits in the driver's seat, but doesn't start the engine.

"Can I ask you about, uh, a girl?"

The Ferrari roars to life and he mumbles a barely-coherent string of details about one of your mutuals.
You know the girl, a Rainbow-Haired Girl from online.
Of course he has a crush on her, everyone has a crush on her.

After what feels like hours in traffic, you get to the bar.
Of course it's Soho House Malibu. Why didn't he just say that?

You order a few drinks, making sure to pay separately, as he's certainly the kind of person to hold it against you for the rest of eternity.

He unloads his emotional baggage.

He explains that him and the Rainbow-Haired Girl hung out in a group once or twice and "she seemed into it" and she's said she wants to see his beach house, but they've never hung out other than that and he doesn't know how to ask.

"What should we do?"

Do you help him with his crush, even if that might crash and burn?
Or do you ignore it, puff up his ego, not waste your time?

Point out to your Friend the woman at the bar.

She gives you a smile then looks away.
It's tough to figure her age. She's older than you, but not by much.

Your Friend looks hesitant but you're walking over to the Woman before he can stop you. He follows you like a puppy.

"Hello there," she says.
You start talking like it's the most casual thing, mostly just the two of you.

She asks what the two of you do that you're free in the middle of a Wednesday.
"Are you film producers?"
"Ew, no, disgusting," your friend says.
Quite the charmer.

Before he can jam his foot any further into his mouth, his phone rings.
You see on the screen:
MOM

"Sorry," he mutters. "I have to take this."

He dips away and you can hear as he walks off,
"I'll call you back, Mom..."

As soon as your Friend steps away, the Woman opens her Birkin bag hanging off the back of her chair.

She shows you a small baggie of white powder. It practically glows.

The thought of not following her doesn't even enter your brain.

But your friend is walking back over already.

She's heading toward the unisex bathroom in the back, looking at you to follow.

What do you tell him?

"What? Into the bathroom?"
He puts on a dumb grin, paired with an annoying laugh.
He's acting like a kid because that's what he is.

But not wanting to miss the window, you drag him along.

You follow the Woman from the Bar down a narrow hallway and into the bathroom.

It's a little packed but not bad.
She locks the door behind you.
She doesn't say anything while she cuts lines on a tiny mirror from her purse.
She came prepared.

He stands there awkwardly while you both do a line.

You feel a little pepped up, not the best.
But you can feel your Friend's silent judgement.

She picks up on his awkwardness and you all go back to the bar.
She starts asking questions, making forced conversation.
"You don't like to have fun?" she asks your Friend.

"Not really, no."

He's so generally off-putting that the woman takes her cue and returns to her end of the bar.

Great.
But he's in his own world, somehow offended.
"You have to watch who you spend time with, or bring around, you can't just let anyone in his circle."

How do you want to react? He already blew things with her.

He gives you a scared, kind of annoyed look while you follow the Woman toward a back hallway.

The bathroom is small and when you get in, she's straight to business, taking out a small mirror and cutting a few lines.

"Do you have a bill?"

While you fumble in your pockets, praying you have some emergency cash, she sprinkles a few questions.

"So, you two are friends?"
She gives you a look you can't really describe, but wouldn't say is inviting.

"I was just wondering because it seems like you don't really like each other."

You hit the line she offers. Her stuff is good. Gas. It burns.

"He seems like a rich douchebag," she says.
"Let me guess, he has a beach house in Malibu?"

You know he does, but do you tell her?

"You should see for yourself."

She gives an overly flirtatious smile.
"Maybe I will."

He's drunk when the two of you get back to him at the bar.
It's easy to convince him to invite her back.

On the way to the car, he mumbles something about his crush, you and the Woman laugh.

She rides with you guys back to his place, but by now any hint of flirtation is gone.
She's locked in on her phone, texting.

Your friend sobers up for the drive home but that doesn't stop him from driving like a jackass the whole way. It's a miracle you make it in one piece.

The house is nice. Not as nice as you expect, but at the same time nicer than anything you'll probably ever afford in your life.

"It's beautiful," says the Woman from the Bar, mostly to you.

You get inside and your Friend tries too hard at being host. He opens a bottle of wine and splits it between three glasses, only spilling a little.

He gets the electric fireplace going, even though it isn't that cold.

You sit around talking about the city and the weather and where's good to vacation and it feels kind of awkward, almost like you're waiting for something.

Then there's a knock on the door.
The back door.

You Friend is half-asleep but it makes you sit up.

"You have nothing to worry about," the Woman from the Bar says standing up.

She moves to the back door and you feel frozen in your seat.

She opens the door and two men enter, in black t-shirts and jeans, wearing gloves.

"There's no need to do anything foolish or panic and use your phone," she continues.

Sensing more people in the house, your Friend sits up.
"What? Who are you?"
One of the Men shows he's holding a gun.

The Woman from the Bar takes you and your Friend's phones from the table.
The Guys are looking at you and your Friend like you have something that belongs to them.

She looks around the house, most interested in the master bedroom in the back.

"Do you know why we're here?"

She looks you over, almost seeming disappointed.

She kisses your cheek, gives you a tight hug, and goes back to the bar.

You follow her out but she pays her tab and leaves.
While you were in there, he got shit-faced.

You drive him home, it's impossible to get any functional directions out of him but you manage to get an address and Apple Maps takes you the whole way.

You pull into the driveway. His house is nice,
Private, on the beach, probably the nicest house you've seen in a while.

He waves his hand to stop the car and that he's fine.

He doesn't thank you, doesn't really say anything to you, just gets out of the car, leaves his door open, and stumbles to the front door.

After a few tries, he gets his key in the door and you watch him collpase on the floor a few feet past the entrance.

The front door is wide open and you think about what's inside.

"This? I have a Phantom in the garage but I just got the wheels waxed and taking it out this far is annoying."

"Far?"

"I live in Malibu. In one of my houses. Well, my family's houses."

You nod.

He starts talking about his money, his family connections.
Sometimes, that's how it goes. Especially in LA.

And since you're in LA, you're waiting in traffic on the way to the bar.

It's the afternoon and it takes at least an hour to make it into Malibu in an unending parade of Teslas and BMWs, all marching toward the ocean. You listen to Meek Mill and Pop Smoke and try not to think about the irony.

You get to the bar. Of course it's Soho House. Why didn't he just say that?

You order drinks, making sure to pay separately, as he's certainly the kind of person to hold it against you for the rest of eternity.

As one drink turns into a few, he suggests he can help you with "whatever it is you do."

His confidence rises with his drink count and he's running his mouth pretty aggressively at this point. You're starting to feel the buzz, too.

"If you want, I can invite you to my group chat," he tells you.

Crypto is full of politicizing and sycophants.
You can either maintain some self-respect and not pander to him or be a kissass and maybe get some alpha-- a half decent NFT call-- out of the whole thing.

be

He orders two more drinks and chugs them both.

"Fuck it, invite her to my place."

His confidence is exciting to see, if misplaced.

He doesn't slide you his phone, instead clutches it tightly, and asks you what to say.
You tell him:

//Have a friend coming over. Come check out the beach house. Dogs allowed.//

He looks at you. How do you know she has a dog?
You don't.

She messages back almost immdiately.
//what time?//

"Let's fuckin gooooooo!"
His joy is short-lived when his phone lights up--
Mom calling.

He handles the call, mostly just checking in with his mom, getting off the phone as fast as possible.

"Bro, she wants to hangout!"

Before you can say anything--

"Bro, you have to come with. me. I won't know what to say. I'll pay for your Uber back."

You agree and drive him home.

The house isn't as nice as you expect, and your Friend is so anxious that despite being a small guy he takes up the whole room.

He DoorDashes bags of alcohol and mixers, and you have to convince him to not order steak and seafood to have waiting for her.

An hour passes of you almost falling asleep on your Friend's couch while he anxiously paces.
Then, you hear the crunch of gravel and a Prius pulls up outside.

You both wait, listening to her footsteps down the stairs and when she knocks, your Friend opens the door instantly.

She's pretty, but kind of basic, like several other girls who are too online and think they're the main character of something.

Conversation is easy, mostly between you and her.
She mentions meeting other people from online and it being a little awkward, but you tell her this won't be at all like that.

You make drinks.
Your Friend gulps down another one and you're starting to worry because his eyes aren't focusing.

By now she's laughing a lot at your jokes. Things are going well.
But not for your Friend.

He's getting drunk, messy. He spills a few times, takes way too long to get paper towels, then spills more trying to clean.

Asking for help, he pulls you aside awkwardly into the kitchen.
His fridge is worth more than your car.

He mumbles something about needing help talking to her. She's so pretty.
He asks if he already fucked it up.

Maybe you can still help him out with her.
Sure.

Pour him a glass of water and go back to the living room.
You cool it with the jokes, don't make yourself look too good.
Don't sit up straight, slouch a bit. Quit looking at her, especially stop making eye contact.

The conversation simmers down to burning embers for a while. Scrolling your phones, but eventually it picks back up.
Your friend sits up and suprises you with a second wind.

He starts asking her about herself. You're stunned.
You do your best to wingman.
Eventually they start talking about anime, which you take to be a good thing.

She's laughing at some of his references and it's actually going not too badly.

You mention that you haven't really seen much of the house-- mostly stuck in the living room-- and now you're all on your feet.

Your friend is giving a tour with a modicum of authority, or at least knowledge of the floorplan.
The anime conversation continues toward the bedroom.

Don't feel bad.
Just keep repeating that to yourself.

Tell your friend to go to bed.
He asks if he needs to help the Rainbow-Haired Girl to her car, tell him no, you've got it.

When he goes to his room and shuts the door, she looks at you with a look of mischief, like she was the one who just put him to bed.

She climbs closer, hand going to your thigh.

She unzips your pants and, very quickly, gives you some head on the sofa.
You can't believe it. You look around hoping there's not a Ring camera.
She stops and goes to her bag.
She takes out--

A baggie of white powder.

"I stopped by my dealer's before I came here."
Try not to think about what she paid for the bag.

You've had this feeling before, a little disappointed that she's like all the rest, a little excitement for what comes next.

What do you do?

She smiles and tosses the baggie back in her bag.

After about an hour, she's on the floor and you're wiping her off, when you hear a sound.
It's not too close, at first you think it's someone outside.
Then you realize, it's your Friend.

It sounds like he's throwing up in his room.

You feel bad and want to check on him, but she pulls you back to the floor.

The two of you have sex through most of the night, leaving before either the sun or your Friend comes out.

As her moans rise through the air to where he can definitely hear them, one look from her and you both start laughing about the whole thing, naked.

Feeling trapped in the living room, but still too nice to flee, you quietly excuse yourself to the bathroom.

It's nicer than your bedroom. There's a rug you want to rub your bare feet on. You find a switch for a heated floor.
You sit and scroll Twitter for some time. Definitely too long.

Then, you hear it.
One loud pop.
Then another.
You think you also hear glass shaking but that could just be your imagination.
Maybe they got a few more beers. Or opened champagne.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Police detain you for hours.

You answer every question. You kind of have to. The evidence looks like shit against you at first, but when they do a further analysis. Gunpowder on his hands, none on yours.
A clear suicide. Defensive wounds.
It's a day later, but they let you go.

Ignore the questions online about it.
Take some time for yourself, clear your head. It was pretty fucked up what you saw.

Go to a beach house hundreds of miles away, but not too different from where it went down.

Stand on the deck and look out at the ocean. Watch the waves and feel peace.
Why would he do something like that?

You act quickly.

Order the Uber without them noticing. Make sure your phone and keys are in your pockets.

"Bye guys!"
They're stunned.
"Sorry. I feel kinda sick."

Blame the restaurant. The drinks. Call yourself a lightweight. Just get out of there.

Before they can respond, while you get a glimpse of the Rainbow-Haired Girl's pained expression, you're out the door and into the waiting Nissan Sentra, then driving back toward the city, taking the canyon.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You hear about it on the news.

You don't believe it at first. Like someone is playing a prank on you.

Apparently it went down like this:

The Rainbow-Haired Girl had a few bad encounters before where she met creeps from the internet.
Which is why she carried a Glock 19 in her bag.

No one knows the exact series of events.
The lawyer that her parents hire will paint a picture.
Your Friend "made a pass" and when she denied him, he snapped. Went a little too far. Maybe even just raised his voice.
Then the Glock came out.
There was a wrestling match.

Then he fired two in her, then one in himself.

Her parents get a payday and, in a way, he gets laid.

"Ladies first," you tell her.

You're not really in the mood for coke, but when a pretty girl offers, you are.

She cuts out a few lines, then snorts them all. Big appetite.

She goes to cut your lines when you hear a faint moaning in the distance.
You realize it's your Friend vomiting his brains out in his bathroom.

You go to laugh about it with her and it happened that fast.

She's slumped over, lips blue.

You know what it is before you know.
You look at the lines of powder on the glass table waiting for you.
Fentanyl.

You could wait for the cops, but how would you even begin to explain everything.
Besides, isn't possession 9/10ths of the law?
Sneak out while listening to your Friend's groans through the front door.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You don't check the news for a few months.
Pray every night you don't hear the story on a true crime podcast.

Maybe he called his family's attorney, or maybe he just dumped the body in the ocean.
Then you shake your head. What would he have done with the car? Besides, there's no way he had it in him to do something like that.

All you know is no one every mentions it again.

You don't really know what happened that night,
but that's okay because neither does anyone else.

He nods his head.
You can practically feel his mental notification of New IRL Follower Added.

You have one more drink and when it feels like the night is about to wrap up, a guy sits next to your Friend.

"Hey, bro. Did I see you here last weekend?"

This guy is wearing a polo, khakis, some kind of fancy leather shoes with no socks. The watch on his wrist you swear you've seen before.

They start talking, comparing membership cards or private schools or something.

You go outside to smoke and plan an escape. This whole night has become a wet fart and you're not sure why these things keep happening to you.

You stay outside a little after your smoke, waiting for something to happen.

When you go back in, you can't find your Friend.
You look around but him and the guy he was talking to are gone.

You ask the Bartender and he says your Friend might've gone to the bathroom.

You go through a few back hallways, almost wondering if you're lost, before finding a bathroom. It's dirty and dimly lit, maybe not even the right place although you're not sure where else it could be.

Then you hear it.

Coming from the handicap stall. Two voices, four legs.
The grunting, skin on skin.
It's unmistakable for what it is.

You shut the bathroom door quietly and hear them continue. Men grunting in a way you've never heard before. It's almost surreal and when you hear your Friend yelping, it's time to go.

You run out of the bathroom, not stopping to pay the bill.

Uber home in silence.
Don't block your Friend, but you definitely mute him.

He rolls his eyes.

"Whatever, some people just don't get it."

He keeps ordering drinks, it seems like something is bugging him, something outside of this bar.

He scrolls his phone in silence.
You feel too bad and too trapped by the awkwardness to leave.

Eventually, his drunkessness topples over the same time his phone dies and he asks you, slurring,
"Can you drive me home?"

WIth no real other options, and wanting to drive the car, you say yes.

From his own passenger seat, he mutters something about his crush.
Of course his phone has some kind of wireless charger.
He tries to show you pictures while you follow GPS instructions.

He mostly just scrolls his timeline and sends texts he'll probably regret in the morning.

Eventually, the GPS says you're there.

The house is actually not that impressive.
But just the location, directly on the water, with a "private beach," means it's probably a nicer house than you'll ever own in your life.

You pull into the driveway and help your Friend.
You don't have time to really check out the house, since he can't stand on his own and you practicallly have to carry him in.

He's been quiet for a few minutes and is mostly willing to be moved along.
With his arm around you, that's when the smell hits.

There's no other stench so vile.
He shit himself.

Poop starts leaking down his pant leg and a dark stain grows on his bottom.

"Hnggggg," he looks at you like a handicapped child and you feel nothing but pity.

You help your Friend to the tub and get him undressed.

He's mostly cooperative, but the shit has spread.

It's all down his backside and down his legs. It's about now that his legs give out completely and he's just rolling around, not quite fully in the tub,

He occaisionally kicks his legs, flinging shit and some gets into your mouth, causing you to gag.

"Hello?"

An attractive, older woman walks in, freezing when she sees you.

She explains she's your Friend's Mom and when she couldn't get in contact with him, she drove over and let herself in the house.

She's dressed nice and smells even nicer. There's a raw magnetism to her.
She looks down on you, covered in her son's shit.

"Are you the Uber driver?" she asks.

You explain what happened.

She laughs and thanks you.

Fuck this. You're not his fucking Mom.
You drag your friend by the feet as he groans, scraping his back on the driveway gravel.

Shit smears all along the floor and his back, and as he kicks while you drag him, into his face and mouth.

You find a guest bathroom with a standing shower, drag him in, and turn the water on hot while he's still in his clothes. He rolls to the side, getting wet, face-up. He probably won't drown.

You douse your hands in expensive soap, even though you successfully avoided getting any shit on you.

"Oh my Gosh!"
You turn around and an attractive woman is standing in the hallway.

She's well-dressed and looks concerned.
She sees her son in the tub and you washing your hands.
She explains she's your Friend's Mom and when she couldn't get in contact with him, she drove over and let herself in the house.

"Thank you so much for taking care of him. I'm so sorry."

She sheperds you into the living room, slightly embarrased about her offspring.

"Can I offer you some money or something?"
She messes with her bag, looking tired.

Knowing you're just placating, you can see him lose interest in the conversation.

He awkwardly says something about how he needs to get back to his house, which is actually his parents' house and mutters something about security codes.
You don't ask for a ride home.

When your Uber drops you off at 10:30, there's barely more time than to eat peanut butter with a spoon above your sink, then take off your shirt and go lie down in bed.

Take a hit from your bedside pipe,

Reach down into your boxers and think about the Woman at the Bar.
Don't bother cleaning your leg off before sleep creeps up.
This is kind of how it goes for you every day.

"I can help you find his crypto."
"You're looking for a small USB device. Then you'll need his passcode."

He looks at you, disgusted, the same way he looked at the waiter for not refilling his water fast enough.

Very quickly, zipties come out and your Friend's hands are tied.
Pliers come out, you can't watch.
To your Friend's credit, he made it a full 30 seconds before telling them.

They find his Ledger hidden behind his refrigerator.

He gives up his code, immediately.
You show one of the Guys how to use the Ledger software and enter the pin. He smells like beer.

They take your Friend to his room.
The Woman from the Bar looks like she feels bad and turns on the TV. She plays Bar Rescue, at max volume, and you're not sure what they're doing back there and you don't want to know.

Eventually, the Two Men come out, carrying duffle bags that look heavy.

You're shaking, mostly your hands. They lead you into the blacked-out Lincoln Navigator, sandwiching you between them in the back seat. You aren't sure where you're going, but you realize you don't really have a choice.

As the SUV backs out of the driveway, you wonder if you'll ever see your mother again.

"Please, just let me go."

It doesn't even feel like the words are coming from you.
You aren't there, it's someone else begging for their life.

One of the Men starts walking toward you.

"I never saw anything."

He laughs in a way that makes you feel pathetic, but also still not safe.

"We don't want you, just explain to us how this all works and we'll let you go."

They ziptie both of you, your Friend crying.

It takes them a few minutes to find his Ledger and even less time for him to tell them his PIN. He probably has kidnapping insurance anyway.

They hand it to you to unlock.
As you're typing the PIN in, you don't hear the bullet, and you don't feel it either.

Make sure to lock the car, then take a peek inside.
What's the worst that could happen?

You move cautiously, like it matters. You're not even sure what you're looking for. Embarassing pictures? Money on the ground?
You can always just say you were helping your Friend in.

You consider laying him on a couch or something, but he's curled up pretty comfortably on the floor, so why move him?

You don't hear the black Lincoln Navigator pull up to the house,
and if the Woman from the Bar is with those guys, you sure don't see her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The story on the news talks about two bodies.

Police can't find anything missing in the house, but maybe they just don't know where to look.

There's all kinds of speculation on the internet.
Were you robbing him? Gay lovers? Did you get followed home?

Police only have a theory that AirTags were involved.

You hope for the best and call an Uber which, fortunately, is there very quickly.

Back home, it's a pretty uneventful night.

You smoke a little weed and put on a new movie off Netflix.
You stop it to jerk off to the Woman from the Bar and pass out almost instantly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's on the news the next night.
Just local, then a small piece on CNN.

Home invasion, one dead. Suspects on the loose.

The pictures make your heart race.

Eventually the ID comes out, then a visit from police.
They take you to the station.
You tell them about the Woman from the Bar.
They tell you who she is.

A news release comes out.
Investigators say they believe AirTags were involved and urge all individuals to double check their belongings and persons when going out.

She laughs, relaxed.

"I think I can actually help with that."

She takes out a joint from her bag, with a "ta-da!" for some flair.
This woman is always her own person, You wonder how the apple rolled so far from the tree.

"So how do you know my son?" she lights the joint.
If you say "internet friends" you'll transform into a 10-year-old boy in front of her.
You tell her you met at the bar tonight.

"How old are you?"
"Old enough."
She laughs. You take the joint from her.

You compliment her eyes, and really, that's all it takes.

You lean in, half hoping, and she catches you with her lips.
You kiss passionately then she finds your hands, pulling them to her body.

Your Friend's Mom is hungry, the way she attacks your flesh.

She rips off your pants and gets to work, while you wonder about your Friend, hoping he stayed upright in the bathroom.

As the sound of clapping skin echoes through the empty multi-million dollar house, you wonder which would be worse. For your Friend to hear his own mother's stucco-shaking moans, or for him to drown in his own feces.

She calls you an Uber and pours you a glass of water while you wait.
You talk about nothing and eventually you leave.

As you settle in for the 45 minute ride back, you can't help but feel like you could've gotten more out of the night.

You go home and the next morning, it's like nothing ever happened.
And you and that friend never talk again.