There’s Emma Burns, a fellow attorney, sauntering over in a sleeved black dress, pantyhose, and pointed heels that barely bring her up to my chest. Her petite frame is accompanied by medium-length blonde hair, and the biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re the hue of ocean water; sparkling deep azure with a hint of faded green that sneaks through in the right lighting.

Noah stops walking and I have no choice but to halt next to him, nearly stumbling at the change in direction.

“Emma,” he answers, flashing her a grin. We’re going to be here for a minute. “How are you?”

She returns the smile eagerly, a full beam that stretches from ear to ear. The single gesture makes the whole space around us warmer and brighter. Emma is the office sweetheart, and rightfully so. She’s smart, thoughtful, caring, and respectful, always jumping in to assist others in a time of crisis. She forms a close bond with everyone she interacts with.

We went to the same high school and never spoke over the course of four years, passing in the hallways like drifting ghosts haunting an abandoned mansion. I edged her out to be valedictorian our senior year, and that offense severed any ties of a potential friendship with her down the road. We coexist in the office professionally and amicably, indulging in a rare sarcastic comment when the feeling strikes. And that's it.

There was never a great rift or apocalyptic fight. No one had a falling out. We aren’t enemies or rivals. We’re just not friends and haven’t tried to remedy the awkwardness that’s followed us to adulthood.

Despite being acquaintances for over a decade and a half, I know scant details about her. There’s a small collection of facts I’ve learned and pieced together, however, forming little snapshots of enlightenment into figuring out who Emma Burns really is.

I’ve discovered she’s right-handed. She likes to be at work early, often arriving just past 7 a.m. She drinks two coffees a day—one in the morning, then a second midafternoon, after lunch. On Fridays, she brings in her own cup of caffeine, indulging in some concoction that’s piled high with whipped cream instead of the communal brew in the break room.

Her favorite colors are purple and pink. She always wears the latter in some form on Wednesdays. Today, the choice is a headband, and the pastel cotton candy shade is vibrant against her signature blonde. When I asked her about the color choice a year ago, she rolled her eyes and told me I wouldn’t get the reference. An outlandish statement, since it’s blatantly obvious I’ve seen Mean Girls like everyone else on this planet. I don’t live under a damn rock.