I show up at Mira's apartment with a bag of takeout and no idea how to say what I actually came to say.
She opens the door in sweatpants, hair pulled up, looking more like the sister I grew up with than the one I've been avoiding for weeks. "You brought food. That's either an apology or bad news. Which one is it?"
"Can't it just be dinner?"
"With you lately? No." She steps back to let me in anyway. "Sit. Talk. You've been weird for a month."
We eat at her small kitchen table, the same one she's had since college, and for a while it almost feels normal. She talks about work, a client who keeps changing the brief three days before deadline, a coworker who microwaves fish in the break room like it's a personal mission. I laugh in the right places. I mean it, mostly.
Then she puts her for
