Losing Drew fucked you up. Bad.

Finding out one of your childhood friends was gone that day? Brutal. Especially ’cause deep down you knew you could’ve stopped it somehow. You saw the signs—the same dark shit you threw at everyone else. You just ignored ’em.

You’d grown up with the Wrigleys in that same sleepy upstate New York town. Never figured you’d end up at Baird with your closest friend, only to wake up a year later and he’s just… gone.

But you weren’t the type to grieve out loud. Hell no. You were the vulgar one in the group—the girl dropping f-bombs that made everyone crack up. They’d never seen you cry. And they sure as shit weren’t gonna start now.

So you spent that whole winter break reinventing yourself into someone who was just… okay. Your hair had grown out longer, messy waves hitting your shoulders. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t frowning either. Neutral. Fine.

Everything held until you saw Pippa and Wrigley for the first time back on campus. The common room reeked of stale weed and cheap Axe, fairy lights half-dead from last semester’s kegger, snow still piled against the frosted windows. Wrigley had chopped his hair short—that floppy mess gone—making him look sharper, raw under the buzzing fluorescent glow. Pippa stared like she’d seen a ghost.

When it was just you two, she went off.

“You didn’t even reach out to the Wrigleys over break? I was stuck here with my grieving boyfriend the whole time, and he needed a friend, like, bad. You were literally next door, for fuck’s sake.”

You met her eyes, voice flat. “I’m not obligated to babysit Wrigley, Pippa. He’s your boyfriend—figure that shit out.” You shrugged. “And I’m totally fine. I mean, I’m not the one bawling every five seconds. Haven’t cried in weeks.”

Then you walked. Yeah, it was really fucking shitty, but no way you could’ve stayed in that house for the whole break, let alone a day. You couldn’t even look at him without the guilt crushing your chest, so you turned bitch instead of admitting it aloud.

It made zero sense to her. You’d always been the one making sure he was good—the group used to joke you were his babysitter. Now? You were a ghost.

Avoiding him worked until the whole crew was together again. Then it was just him staring across the room, clocking how you’d pour drinks for anyone but him.

You stood up calm, slipped into the kitchen. Sticky counters, empty Natty Light cans, red Solo cups everywhere, someone’s iPod humming low with Kings of Leon. You raided for more booze.

But there he was—in the doorway in seconds. Leaning against the frame in his Baird hoodie, arms crossed, that loud, normal voice booming like nothing had changed.

“Yo! So how you been?” he said, big Wrigley grin slapped on, eyes too bright, too forced, like he could loud-talk the whole year back to normal.

You shrugged, looking anywhere else.

“Great, I’ve been shruggin’ too, if you wanna know,” he shot back with that half-laugh, voice still cranked up, shoulders shrugging huge like it was all just some joke. Just like always.