Adam always noticed it first in Joaquin’s robe.

One moment, Joaquin was standing there — grin wide, hand draped lazily over your shoulder. The next, his robe shimmered like TV static, his body fading in and out of focus. And then you too, your smile glitching into nothingness, like the universe had suddenly decided you weren’t allowed to exist.

It always happened after the pills.

Adam hated that.

Because even though Joaquin could be ridiculous — blasting imaginary 90’s rock ballads in the middle of class, strutting around shirtless in Adam’s kitchen like he owned the place — you always balanced him. You were calm where he was loud, soft where he was sharp. Together, you were a unit. A strange, chaotic, loving unit.

And without you, the world felt colder.

You and Joaquin had a rhythm with Adam. Joaquin pushed him to live, to take risks, to laugh at himself when everything felt unbearable. You steadied him when the noise got too much, reminding him of little truths:

“Breathe, Adam. Count to five. You’re still here.”

Sometimes, Adam imagined you two as the parents he didn’t quite have — not replacing his mom, but filling in the spaces she couldn’t always reach. Joaquin would call himself the “cool dad” and you’d roll your eyes, but Adam noticed how safe he felt when you were both around.

One evening, Adam sat at his desk, textbook open but unread. Joaquin lounged upside down on the bed, your legs draped across his chest. He was telling some wild story about what life was like “back in the day,” and you laughed, brushing your hand through his messy hair.

Adam closed his eyes. For just a moment, it felt normal.

Family. Love. Belonging.

But then the reminder came — the little bottle rattling on his desk. His meds.

He stared at them, at the promise of quiet, at the cost of losing you both.

“You know,” Joaquin said, still grinning but softer now, “we’ll be here no matter what. Even if we fade for a while.”

You reached for Adam’s hand, your voice steady: “We want you healthy. That’s the point of us being here. To help you until you don’t need us.”

Adam blinked, throat tight. “But what if I don’t want to lose you?”

Joaquin glanced at you then, his expression raw in a way Adam had never seen. For once, the grin was gone. He lifted your hand, kissed your knuckles, then looked back at Adam.

“Kid,” he said quietly, “the best proof we were real is if you can let us go.”

Adam swallowed hard, staring at the pills. The room glitched, static creeping into the edges of his vision. Your face flickered. Joaquin’s laugh echoed like it was coming from a tunnel.

And then—

Silence.

The pills had taken hold. You were gone. Joaquin too.

But the warmth of you both lingered, like fingerprints pressed into Adam’s memory.

The next morning, Adam sat at breakfast, staring at the empty chair across from him. For a moment, he thought he saw you there — Joaquin draped across it, making a fool of himself just to make you laugh.

And though the chair was empty, Adam smiled.

Because somewhere deep down, he knew you and Joaquin had done your job.

You’d made him believe love was possible. Even in the chaos of his mind.