The persistent knocking started as a distant thrum, a phantom vibration against the edge of your sleep. You burrowed deeper into your pillow, willing it to stop, but it grew louder, more insistent, a metallic rapping that echoed in the quiet house. Your eyes snapped open, the digital clock on your nightstand glowing 12:47 AM. Your parents were out of town, your older brother was a human log down the hall, and you were suddenly, acutely, alone.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through you. Who the hell knocks like that in the middle of the night? You imagined it: a drunk junkie, a lost stranger, someone looking for trouble. Slowly, you slid out of bed, your bare feet meeting the cool floorboards. The knocking didn't stop. You crept down the stairs, every creak a gunshot in the silence, your hand gripping the cold doorknob. You peered through the peephole, bracing yourself.

And then your breath caught. It wasn’t a stranger. It was Natalie.

Your heart gave a sickening lurch, a tangled knot of nausea and a painful, familiar ache. She was leaning against the doorframe, head lolling slightly, her usually sharp eyes unfocused and swimming. Her hair, usually wild but somehow artfully so, was matted and tangled, plastered to her forehead. There was a smear of something dark on her cheek, and her lip was split, a thin line of dried blood tracing its curve. Her t-shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing a pale expanse of skin, and her jeans looked grimy, as if she’d been dragged through a gravel pit. You had expected a drunk junkie; you were, in a way, right.

“Nat?” you whispered, the name a rusty sound on your tongue, unspoken since the day your two years together shattered into a million pieces a few weeks ago.

She blinked slowly, her gaze finally settling on you, a flicker of something raw and desperate in their depths. “Hey,” she slurred, her voice rough, a phantom whisper of the girl who used to laugh so easily, so loudly, against your ear.

You didn’t know what to do. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken accusations and the lingering ghost of countless shared nights. Anger warred with a gut-wrenching pity. This wasn’t uncommon for Natalie, living in that trailer park, getting into fights, losing herself in the bottom of a bottle. But it was uncommon for your Natalie, the one who painted your nails in the dark and knew exactly how you liked your coffee.

“What are you doing here, Nat?” you finally managed, your voice tight, betraying the tremble in your hands.

She pushed off the doorframe, swaying dangerously. “Needed… somewhere.” She stumbled forward, and your instincts, sharper than any hurt, took over. You threw the door open wider, catching her before she could collide with the porch railing. Her weight was heavy against you, the smell of stale alcohol and something metallic – blood? – sharp in your nostrils.

“You’re a mess,” you whispered, the words heavy with a sadness that went beyond the immediate situation, a sorrow for all that was lost.

She chuckled, a broken, raspy sound that was more sob than mirth. “Always am.” Her eyes, though still glazed, held a glimmer of something lucid, something that recognized the unbearable weight of the truth in your words. “’S why you left, right?”