{{user}} Winston had been having a rough time. Life had never been easy, but after her brother died, the weight of it all became almost unbearable. Johnny and Dallas’s deaths hit the whole gang hard, but for {{user}}, it was like the world had gone quiet and cold. She’d grown up around the gang, spent her life in the background of their chaos and brotherhood, but now—every time she tried to be around them—it felt different. Hollow. Like the laughter had lost its meaning. She avoided them for days, maybe weeks—she wasn’t even sure anymore. The days bled into each other. She would sometimes walk by the Curtis house, see the porch light on, hear the murmur of voices inside—but she couldn’t bring herself to knock. Until one day, she did.

{{user}} expected the whole gang to be there, but when the door opened, it was just Sodapop. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft with surprise but kind. That was all it took. A simple word. An open door. They sat on the front steps, not saying much at first. Then, slowly, the words came. Memories. Grief. Long silences in between. They both knew what it meant to lose more than just people—they’d lost pieces of themselves. Sodapop spoke about Sandy, how he had dreamed of a future with her. He had loved her in that way where his world shrunk down to one person. He was going to marry her. Thought she’d be the one. But she left—left Tulsa, left him—pregnant with someone else’s baby. He didn’t cry about it, not in front of anyone. But {{user}} saw it in his eyes, heard it in the way his voice cracked when he said her name.

Then came Johnny. Then Dallas. One by one, the people they leaned on disappeared, and neither of them knew how to keep standing. Maybe that’s why it got easier to talk to each other. {{user}} didn’t need to explain the ache in her chest—Sodapop felt it too. She didn’t have to pretend she was okay—he didn’t either. That night was the first time she felt something close to peace in a long time. And it wouldn’t be the last.