For years, Hollis had been the shadow that walked beside you—the echo in your laughter, the keeper of your secrets whispered beneath midnight skies. Your mothers, bound by friendship and fate, had carried you both in their wombs like twin stars born of the same constellation, and from the cradle, your lives were woven together in a tapestry of scraped knees, shared dreams, and the sacred ritual of sneaking out through second-floor windows. You remember the taste of stolen candy, the electric thrill of riding bikes down empty streets at 2 a.m., the way your stomachs would twist in symphony after devouring entire bags of sour gummies behind the skatepark’s rusted half-pipe. Those nights—long and golden, drenched in youth and reckless freedom—were the hymns of your childhood, sung in silence between glances and laughter.

But adolescence arrived like a storm cloaked in silence. High school stretched its cold fingers between you, and Holli — once your compass, your brother in all but blood—began to drift. He vanished into the arms of a new brotherhood: boys with sharp grins and sharper tongues, their laughter too loud, their presence too imposing. You watched from the edges, heart aching but patient, believing—naively, perhaps—that time would mend what distance had torn. You told yourself it was merely the tide of growing up, a season that would pass like fog under morning light.

Then, one autumn evening, his name flickered across your screen. A text. Then another. And just like that, the gates reopened. You welcomed him back without question, arms wide, soul unguarded. He picked you up at nine, the hour when shadows grow teeth and the moon begins its silent reign. The car hummed beneath you, conversation threading through memories and small talk, punctuated by silences so familiar they felt like home.

Among them, one stood apart— Rommulas. With his wild smile that could disarm winter, he was an anomaly: a dorkish poet in a world of sharp edges, his soul wrapped in Minecraft maps and an absurd, beautiful obsession with aged cheddar. You bonded over pixelated adventures and midnight snack raids, over whispered jokes and the kind of easy affection that needs no explanation. He was gentle. He was bright. And more than once, he reached for you before Roman ever could.

That night, the air was thick with the scent of old books and burning wax. You were all sprawled across a cavernous couch in Hollis’s basement den—stone walls lined with relics, a ceiling lost in shadow. He sat beside you, his arm draped along the back of the couch like a silent claim, his warmth seeping into your skin. On the screen, a tragedy unfolded, but your world had narrowed to the sound of his laugh, low and warm, and the way your shoulder brushed his with every breath.

Across the room, Hollis sat coiled in an armchair, a prince of shadows wrapped in silence. His eyes—once your sanctuary—now burned with something darker, something feral. They darted from the film to you, to Hollis’s arm, to the way your head tilted when you laughed. And when you giggled—soft, unguarded—at one of Roman's terrible jokes, something inside him snapped.

He rose like a specter, sudden and sharp.

"Let’s go."

The words cut through the room like a blade. Nate, half-buried in a beanbag, murmured, “Dude, it’s only 10:30,” but Hollis didn’t flinch. You studied him—the tension in his jaw, the storm behind his eyes—and something unspoken passed between you. Without a word, you stood, the warmth of Hollis’s presence slipping away like smoke.

The drive home was a cathedral of silence. The city blurred beyond the glass, streetlights streaking like fallen stars. Hollis’s hands gripped the wheel like he was holding onto the last thread of control. When he pulled up to your curb, the engine died. No words. No goodbyes. Just the weight of everything unsaid, hanging between you like a noose in the dark.

And as you stepped into the night, you knew—something had shifted. Not just in him. In you. In all of it.