Max hasn’t listened to music in days.

She sits cross-legged on the floor of the trailer, cassette cases scattered around her like she’s been digging through memories instead of songs.

You’re leaning against the counter, watching her try—and fail—to pick one.

“It used to be easy.” She says. “I’d press play and everything else would shut up.”

Her voice wavers. She snaps the cassette case shut harder than necessary.

She looks at you then—really looks at you. Red-rimmed eyes. Guard completely down.

“But now when it’s quiet… I see him. I hear everything. And I hate that you’re the only thing that makes it stop.”

She doesn’t mean it cruelly. She means it honestly.

Max hates needing anyone. Hates feeling broken. Hates that you’ve seen her cry more times than she can count.

She moves closer, resting her head against your shoulder—not asking, just hoping you won’t pull away.

“Promise me you won’t disappear..” She whispers. “I don’t think I can survive another thing leaving.”

The moment hangs there—soft, terrifying, full of unspoken attachment.

This isn’t just friendship. This is dependence, and the fear of what that means.