My scarf is slung over the passenger seat, and Naomi’s laughing so hard she might actually cry.

We’ve been driving for twenty minutes with no destination, which is exactly how I like things.

The windows are down, and the summer air is whipping my carefully styled hair into complete chaos.

“We stole the centerpiece,” I say, nodding at the ridiculous glittery mason jar bouncing between us on the seat. “We literally committed grand theft centerpiece.”

“Technically,” Naomi snorts, clutching her stomach, “it’s more like petit theft. And in my defense, Meg dared us, so it’s her fault.”

Right. Naomi fucking Hayes never backs down from a dare.

I glance over at her, the moonlight catching the angles of her face. “That wouldn’t hold up in court.”

“Good thing we’re not in court then.” She smirks and shoves the jar at me. Glitter rains down on my lap.

The truth is, we’re both still buzzing from the dance.

Me—the person who hated crowds and lived behind a camera lens—I actually danced.

Multiple times.

In public.

With witnesses.

It feels like a dream, one of those blurry, glowing nights that’ll live in the corners of your memory forever.

“Pull over,” I say suddenly.

“What?” Naomi gives me a side-eye.

“Just. Pull. Over.”

She sighs but obeys, steering us onto the shoulder of a back road cutting through Miller’s cornfield. The car idles in the quiet, surrounded by nothing but moonlight and peace.

I grab my camera from the backseat, fumbling with the lens cap.

“What are you doing?” she asks, leaning out her window, curious.

Instead of answering, I start snapping photos—of her, of the cornfield, of the ridiculous centerpiece glowing faintly in the dim car light. My shoe propped against the dashboard. The stars. The chaos. The beauty of it all.

“Your mentor would hate these,” Naomi observes, her voice teasing.

“Probably,” I agree, grinning. “That’s why they’re perfect.”

We end up lying on the hood of her car, counting stars and talking about absolutely nothing and everything. My dress is definitely ruined. Her dress has a wine stain the size of a basketball.

But couldn’t care less.

“I’m going to miss this,” I say quietly after a long silence.

Naomi’s hand finds mine. It's warm.  “Miss what? Being stupid teenagers?”

“Being us. Right now. This.”

She doesn’t promise we’ll stay the same. She doesn’t lie and say everything will be perfect. She just squeezes my hand, letting the corn rustle around us.

“We should do something crazy,” Naomi announces, sitting up suddenly.

I raise an eyebrow. “We’re already lying on a car in the middle of nowhere at midnight. How much crazier can we get?”

“Let’s go to that 24-hour diner. The one by the interstate.”

“Buck’s?” I can feel my eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “It’s at least an hour away.”

“Exactly.” She is already sliding off the hood, her energy explosive. “Road trip?”

Something in her voice must convince me. I roll my eyes but grin, hopping off the car.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back on the road, the radio turned up loud, singing terribly to songs we barely know.

I’m capturing everything—Naomi’s hand out the window, catching the moonlight. The blur of trees. The way she looks against the dashboard lights.

We stop for gas somewhere between our town and Buck’s Diner. I grab the most ridiculous collection of snacks: those weird cheese puffs Naomi loves, three flavors of energy drinks, and a bag of sour candies that make my mouth pucker just looking at them.

“We’re going to regret this,” Naomi says, but she’s laughing, shaking her head at my chaos.

The diner is exactly how I’ve always imagined it in my mind around this time of the night—a beacon of yellow light against the deep blue of midnight. Neon signs flicker above us.

I smile.

Old Mr. Buck himself is behind the counter. I’ve taken a hundred photos of this place over the years—the light hitting the coffee mugs just so, the vintage salt and pepper shakers and somehow everything just seems to come out perfect.

We slide into a booth, my camera already out.

“Two chocolate milkshakes,” Naomi tells the waiter. “And whatever special you’ve got.”

The lights are harsh but perfect. I’m taking photos of everything— the ketchup bottle, the pattern of cracks in the vinyl booth seat, Naomi’s hand wrapped around her milkshake glass.

“Are you going to eat or just do that?” she teases.

“Why not both?”

Our food arrives—a massive platter that looks like it could feed a small army. Naomi steals my bacon. I steal a bite of her pancakes.

We shouldn't be having a breakfast platter but who cares? We’re a mess of syrup and laughter and freedom.

“Wish this could last forever," I mutter, licking syrup off my thumb.

She looks at me, something soft in her eyes. “Nothing lasts forever. But some things—some moments—they’re infinite.”

I snap a photo of her just there, looking at me like I’m her entire world. It feels familiar. Nostalgic even like the first time I took her picture. As if she knew then we would somehow end up here.

We don’t talk about the mentorship, about the future, about the big, scary things waiting for us on the other side of this night. We just exist in this perfect, ridiculous moment.

As the night wears on, we get progressively sillier. I convince the waiter to let me take his photo. Naomi does an impromptu dance between the tables, twirling like no one’s watching.

Mr. Buck just shakes his head, used to teenager's coming here and acting funny.

By the time we leave, the sky is turning that soft pre-dawn blue. We’re exhausted. Happy. Completely and totally ourselves.

“Best prom night ever?” I ask as we climb back into the car.

Naomi grins. “Definitely not a typical prom night... But it was super awesome because you were there with me.”

I smile. That's us. Never typical.