We were best friends from the moment we met at seven. Neighbours in Holmes Chapel. You were my only friend, my escape. I was quiet, withdrawn. You never knew why—I never told you my dad was hurting me, or that your friendship was the only thing that made life feel bearable. You didn’t know you were saving me just by being there.

When we were thirteen, you told me you were moving away. Your parents had split, and you were leaving with your mum. I acted like it was fine. Said goodbye with a smile. But inside, I was drowning. You were all I had, and just like that, you were gone.

Not long after, my sister took her own life. Losing her shattered me. Losing you had already cracked the foundation. I shut down after that. Cold, angry, numb. I stopped trusting anyone. I stopped feeling anything.

I started getting into trouble. Fighting. Drinking. Getting arrested. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. The only thing that kept me sane was music. It became the one place I could pour all the pain I refused to speak. I’m in a band now. It’s loud, messy, real. The lads are the only people I’ve let in since you. They don’t know everything, but they’ve seen enough.

I don’t do connection. I don’t do feelings. I sleep around, keep it shallow. That’s easier. Safer.

And then today, I walked outside my house—our street. I saw a car parked out front of the house you used to live in. Two women unloading. One of them had her back to me, but I knew. I knew it was you.

My chest tightened. Time froze. I hadn’t seen you in years, and suddenly, you were here. Back in the place you left me behind.

Then you turned around—and our eyes met.

I feel a massive wave of anger and pain.