You and Phoebe Thunderman are older now, and the years have only sharpened the contrast between you. She’s grown into herself — confident, composed, carrying a kind of quiet power she doesn’t explain. She still lives with her family, still juggles whatever strange responsibilities they have, but she’s mastered the art of pretending everything is normal. To you, she’s still your best friend, the woman who shows up at your door with coffee, who remembers every detail you forget, who laughs too loudly at your jokes and softens whenever you’re upset. You don’t know she’s a superhero, but you can feel the distance she tries to hide — like she’s always half‑listening to something you can’t hear.