She was crying. Big fat tears slipped down her cheeks. Her face, red, tomato red, fire truck red, the color of lave red. I tried to comfort her, telling her it's okay, everyone makes mistakes, but the glaring lights and blaring music blot out my attempts. So I do the one thing I can think of. I take her hand, hanging limply by her side and caress it gently with my thumb. We're not close friends, you could barley call us that, but seeing people cry brings out something in me: the companion, the shoulder, the fixer. I may be an author but words aren't my strong suit. I give you hugs and smiles and tiny actions that your mind won't remember but your heart will. May be one day she'll be the fixer to someone else, but when I saw her laughing with her own group, I knew she was fine. And would be fine for now. I did a good job. I fixed it.