People always ask me how I stay so upbeat all the time, like it's some kind of superpower.
Spoiler alert: it's not. It's music, carbs, and my girls.
That's the secret formula. Or at least my formula.
My mornings usually start with singing—loudly, proudly, and sometimes wildly off-key on purpose, just to see if I can get Summer to crack. The girl's got the patience of a saint, but I know exactly which notes to hit to make her flinch. It's our morning tradition: me blasting music from the speaker and turning the apartment into my personal stage, while she calmly sips her tea and pretends not to hear me.
Today was no different. I woke up with a song in my head and a craving for pancakes.
"Breakfast and Rihanna, baby!" I shouted to no one in particular as I danced into the kitchen, my sock-covered feet sliding across the floor.
I opened the fridge, stared at the ingredients like they were auditioning for a role, and decided: pancakes it is. Not just any pancakes—fluffy, golden, slightly crispy at the edges, with a mountain of fruit and a drizzle of honey. I started whipping up the batter, humming along to the beat in my head, and warming up my voice like I was getting ready for a concert.
Honestly, it kind of was a concert. Just for me, the spatula, and maybe Summer, if she was lucky.
While the pancakes sizzled on the stove, I ran through some vocal warm-ups, hitting a few high notes and throwing in some unnecessary ad-libs because why not? It was my stage, my kitchen, my audience of fridge magnets and spice racks.
Summer eventually walked out of her room, already dressed, already composed, her hair falling smoothly down her shoulders like she didn't just wake up fifteen minutes ago.
"Practicing again?" she asked, sitting at the counter.
"Obviously. I've got to keep the vocals tight if I'm going to win that open mic next month," I said, flipping the pancake with a flourish. "Also, you're welcome for breakfast."
She smiled. "They smell amazing."
"I know. I'm amazing," I grinned.
After breakfast, I threw on something cute but comfortable—just in case we decided to hang out later. I spent the next hour alternating between scrolling through vocal tutorials and watching cooking videos. That's my second love after music: food. I'm the type who will cry over a perfectly melted grilled cheese or spend an hour getting the seasoning just right on pasta. I don't just eat food—I romance it.
Around noon, I got a text in the group chat.
Stella: "Anyone free today? I'm bored and pretty."
Rudy: "I'm free. Also you're always pretty."
Astrid: "I have my camera and nothing to shoot. I'm in."
Stephanie: "As long as it's not too chaotic…"
Andrea: "Chaotic? Us? Never. Where are we meeting?"
We all decided to meet at the usual spot: our clubhouse. It's not a traditional clubhouse, but it's ours. We found it in middle school—a little house on the outskirts of town that no one had really cared about. It might not have been much, but we saw potential. Over the years, we transformed it, adding our personal touch to every corner. It's become our safe space, the place where we can just be ourselves.
When I got there, Rudy was already inside, sitting cross-legged with a sleepy-looking cat curled up in her lap. Typical Rudy move—if there's an animal nearby, she's befriending it within five seconds.
Stella was lounging dramatically on a bean bag, flipping through a magazine she'd probably already read five times. Stephanie was organizing a pile of notebooks, probably making schedules for something we hadn't even planned yet. Astrid stood by the window, messing with her camera settings.
Summer was on the couch, curled up with a book in one hand and a cup of green tea in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she had that look on her face that said, I'm the most relaxed person in the room, and I know it.
And me? I plopped down with a smoothie and started humming again.
"Do you ever not sing?" Stephanie asked without looking up.
"Do you ever not plan world domination?" I shot back.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
We spent the afternoon eating snacks, teasing each other, and making up random games. Stella dared Rudy to sing, and to everyone's surprise, Rudy actually did—just a soft little verse of some song none of us recognized, but it was beautiful. Then, of course, I had to follow it up with a dramatic ballad and a fake microphone. Stella joined in, turning it into an impromptu duet that turned into laughter halfway through.
At one point, I found myself sprawled across the floor, laughing so hard my stomach hurt, surrounded by people who've known me since I was a kid. There's something magical about that—being completely, unapologetically yourself, and still being loved for it.
The sky outside began to dim, the last of the daylight filtering through the windows of our clubhouse. Astrid took a quick snapshot of the group, capturing the chaos and joy of the moment. I knew that photo would be another one to hang on the wall next to the rest of the collection—a reminder of all the moments we shared, of how much this place, and these people, meant to me.
As the day wound down, I lingered in the warmth of the clubhouse, the air thick with laughter and the lingering scent of food we'd devoured earlier. I didn't want to leave just yet. It wasn't just about the food, or the music, or even the laughter—it was the sense of home that they gave me, of belonging. I couldn't help but smile to myself as I glanced around. My girls. My people. The ones who understood me without words.
Tomorrow would come, and we'd do it all over again. I'd be singing as loud as ever, probably making some mess in the kitchen, and laughing way too much. Because that's how we do things. And I'd never change it for anything.
I'm Andrea. I'm the girl who keeps things moving, who fills the room with noise and flavor. And as long as I have this—this crazy, wonderful, perfectly imperfect life with my friends—I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.