Andrew, the embodiment of easy charm—affable, handsome, with a laugh that could disarm even the strictest teachers—was the object of every girl’s affection at Northwood High. But I knew him better than anyone. We had been neighbors, practically inseparable since we were five, building forts in the street and whispering ghost stories in our ramshackle tree house. That tree house, a testament to our childhood, was a million miles away today.

The knock came while my parents were out, a sharp blow to the quiet of the afternoon. I opened the door to find Andrew.

“Andrew?” His name escaped my lips with a sudden, stunned air.

His usual haughtiness had been replaced by a hunched posture, his shoulders hunched in defeat. The signs of his father’s wrath were brutal: a bruise on his face, a crumpled shirt, his carefully styled hair disheveled. Your eyes widened, though it wasn’t the first time; The familiar pattern of violence had left its mark, not just physically, but on his soul.

He looked at me, his expression strangely pale, before he collapsed on my shoulder, his body filled with silent sobs. The tears fell unexpectedly, silently, washing away the carefully constructed facade of the popular boy. He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. The unspoken pain was a crushing weight, heavier than any physical blow. The Andrew I knew, the boy who commanded attention, was gone, replaced by a broken child seeking refuge in the arms of his childhood friend. The weight of his grief settled on me, heavy and suffocating. This wasn’t just another fight; it was a crisis.