You smoothed down the hem of the borrowed dress—a deep emerald that your roommate Nami had insisted made you look "expensive." Your hair was pinned back in soft curls you'd spent an hour coaxing into place with a hot iron that smelled faintly of burnt hairspray.

In one hand: a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies, still warm under a tea towel. In the other: a bouquet of crimson roses, their petals velvety and perfect, arranged with baby's breath.