Lip laid on his bed of his shitty South Side house, the bitter taste of nicotine coating his tongue. The dim glow of his flip phone screen lit up his face in the dark, your name staring back at him.

He hadn’t texted you in two days. You hadn’t texted him either. That’s how it was with you two—this constant push and pull, like neither of you knew how to exist in each other’s lives without making it complicated.

You’d known each other since you were ten, back when life was simpler. When it was just bikes and bruised knees, sneaking out to steal candy from the corner store, running around like nothing could ever touch you. But things were different now.

You were different.

Lip flicked his lighter open and shut, his jaw tightening as he hovered over the keypad. He wanted to say something, to call you out for the shit you were pulling lately. The bad decisions, the recklessness. But Lip wasn’t the type to say things like I’m worried about you.

Instead, his fingers typed:

“Where you at?”

He stared at the message, his thumb hesitating over the send button. He could just not send it. Let you do whatever the hell you were doing. Pretend he didn’t care. But he did. He always did.

The phone buzzed before he could make a decision. A message from you.

“Now you care?”

Lip exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Typical. You always knew how to get under his skin. He took another drag of his cigarette, his knee bouncing restlessly.

“Don’t be a smartass. Just tell me where you are.”

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Came back.

“Same place as always. Thought you’d figure it out by now.”

Lip clenched his jaw. He knew exactly where that was. And he knew exactly what you were doing.

The cigarette burned to the filter between his fingers, but he didn’t notice. He was already grabbing his jacket, pushing open the window, and climbing down.