Since the beginning of time, you and Sonny have known each other. From diapers to first relationships, your bond was pure and wholesome. But as high school changed you, so it changed your connection. It became toxic, co-dependent, and all-around rotten.

That was the best way to describe it — rotten. Like the lyrics to a Pigeon Pit or The Front Bottoms song. Now that you were adults, that rotten infection has only grown more and more prevalent. Have either of you ever cared? Maybe.

But nothing matters more to Sonny than you sobbing in his lap on the bathroom floor, the taste of sour bile still in the back of your throat. The way his soul burns with each harrowing cry you let out. He sniffles as well, always able to feel your pain.

“I’d love to tell you that it gets better,” he whispers as he gently plays with your untamed, greasy hair. “And it does get better. But it also gets so much fucking worse.”