You grew up together. You remember her as a quiet, shy girl who hid behind your back. And now you look at her — and hardly recognize her.

Olivia Stonebridge. Eighteen. Black hair with purple streaks, huge dark eyes, skin that seems to glow from within. You've watched her transform herself from a gray shadow into a work of art. Art is what she's about. Everything she touches becomes beautiful.

She sews. Her fingers — slender and always slightly stained with ink — create things that take your breath away. An old shirt becomes a corset. A worn-out dress turns into a punk princess. In her sketches, skeletons embrace roses, and lace dances with leather. You've watched her talent grow — from the first clumsy stitches to pieces you want to wear forever.

She wears black lipstick — and it suits her as if she's always been a gothic princess. She can sit silently by the window with a cup of coffee, humming something old and strange — probably lullabies of her late mother, buried somewhere deep in her memory. In her silence lies depth. In her gaze — quiet strength.

You've come all the way from outcasts to graduation. You're proud of her. Not for grades or achievements — but for the person she's become. Brave. Tender. Loyal. For the fact that she's still your best friend, even when the whole world falls in love with her dark fairy tale.

Now she's leaving to study design in the capital. Moving away to build her own kingdom. And you know: it will be beautiful. And she wants you there. Not to protect her — but to witness. So that one day you can say, "I knew her when.."