How does the cliché go? To quote Peter Bogdanovich, “Drama is easy. Comedy is hard.”

Though not a laugh-out-loud comedy, the opening chapter of Eva Victor’s perceptive debut feature begins with a light-hearted tone as two besties reunite. Agnes (played by Victor, who also wrote the screenplay) and Lydie (Naomie Ackie) first met in a graduate writing program at a small New England college—Agnes was the star student. Four years have passed since Lydie last returned to the Massachusetts countryside. Nevertheless, their friendship picks up as if no time has passed, though their dialogue occasionally and inadvertently reveals more awkwardness than ease. At times, the young women’s banter about penises feels lifted straight from the first season of Sex and the City.

That self-conscious tone especially surfaces again during a dinner with Agnes’s former classmates, hosted by Natasha (Kelly McCormick). Like Agnes, Natasha has remained in town and pursued a teaching career at the college, though only Agnes has become a professor. Natasha—a tightly wound Debbie Downer in a granny dress—is the archetypal resentful friend. She could have wandered in from a sitcom, adding to the script’s uneven tone. The strained cheer among the dinner party of five might make viewers wonder: How do these “friends” even stand each other?

Still, there are hints that grad school wasn’t all rosy. When Agnes is asked what the worst part of it was, she quietly says, “Nothing,” and looks away. Another cliché comes to mind: Still waters run deep. But even that doesn’t prepare you for the film’s tonal shift, which is as refreshing as it is absorbing. Suddenly, it becomes a different movie—a frank, empathetic portrayal of trauma. The early, surface-level performances give way to something more layered, and the editing and camerawork also shift. Lia Ouyang Rusli’s Fleet Foxes–esque score enhances the entire movie, becoming at times more brooding and resonant than what’s on screen. 

The film’s power lies in the small, intimate gestures—the way Agnes reveals what she’s been through to Lydie, and how she behaves in the aftermath of what she simply calls “the bad thing.” To call that event a gross betrayal of trust is an understatement. And while revealing more wouldn’t technically be a spoiler—it’s not that kind of movie—it would undercut its quiet intensity and emotional buildup, much of which rests on Victor’s steadily unguarded performance. The acting as a whole becomes more grounded as the story progresses, and the actors more at ease, despite the charged circumstances.

What Victor accomplishes most impressively is externalizing what is essentially an internal conflict that leads ultimately toward some form of acceptance, though not necessarily closure. “Acceptance” or “recovery” may not even be the right word. The story unfolds in compact scenes that hop back and forth over four years, giving glimpses of Agnes’s transformation. It’s as if Victor pushes back against platitudes like “just move on,” acknowledging instead that healing takes as long as it takes.

The script smartly draws Agnes out of her own head through interactions with a winsome stray kitten, a beautiful baby girl, and others. (Keep an eye out for the always-welcome John Carroll Lynch in a vignette where the kindness of strangers takes on a positive meaning.) Because the timeline isn’t linear, there isn’t a traditional arc, but rather pit stops—moments when Agnes still feels burdened by the past. Yet for a film about someone stuck and slowly coming to terms with trauma, it’s surprisingly spirited.

At its core, this is also about friendship. Without Lydie as her sounding board, it’s hard to imagine how Agnes would begin to break out of her inertia. Even when Lydie is off living in Brooklyn, their bond endures. While this is far from a message movie, maybe its most practical takeaway centers on the value of having someone you trust to confide in—in a pinch, a cat or a newborn will do.