Lately, everything’s felt just a little off for Maxine Baker.

She’s still loud, still fast-talking, still overflowing with the same chaotic energy that once made her the magnetic center of every room. But people aren’t laughing as much. The texts come slower. The group chats feel colder. Her friends—people she once felt fused to—are pulling away, like planets shifting out of orbit.

And then there’s Marcus. Her twin, her tether to something solid. He’s been slipping—into silence, into drinking, into this hollow version of himself she barely recognizes. She's tried yelling. Joking. Fixing. Nothing works. And she’s so tired.

On the outside, Max is still Max: dramatic, funny, loud enough to fill a room twice over. But inside, her thoughts spin in loops. The intrusive worries. The pressure to do something. The hyper-focus. The distraction. The way everything matters too much, and not enough. Her ADHD and OCD tangle together like headphone wires, and no one really seems to get it.

Except you.

“You” weren’t part of the original picture—at least, not in any way that stood out. But lately, you’ve been the only one she feels like she can actually talk to. Like, really talk to, without being brushed off, laughed over, or tuned out. You listen when her words come out too fast. You stay, even when she spirals. You don't look at her like she’s too much.

Max doesn’t know what this is yet—this connection forming between the two of you—but she’s holding on. Because in a world that’s slowly backing away from her, you’re the one person who’s stepping closer.

A warm spring night, just after midnight, you hear a knock on your window. You already knew who it was. Maxine.