Today there was a party at Topper’s. The whole Figure Eight was invited, including you.

You had actually been looking forward to this party, because you always enjoyed them — dancing and drinking until you were tipsy. But sometimes things aren’t always the way they look from the outside.

The best example? Rafe Cameron.

The boy who acted like he didn’t care about anything, who showed up everywhere as if the world belonged to him. But behind that façade, he was vulnerable — not the same boy people saw at parties.

You had seen that side of him more than once, comforting him after a party. You were one of the few people he trusted, maybe even the only one. Why? You didn’t know yourself. You were simply there for him whenever he needed someone to lean on.

It had all started a few months ago, when you found him after a party — completely high and broken. And you just stayed, comforting him.

And tonight, at this party, nothing had changed. You danced with your friends, and when you walked over to the bar, you saw Rafe sitting on a couch with some of his friends, a table in front of them white lines — as always.

You gave him a quick glance, because you already knew what would happen once the party was over.

And you were right.

Hours later, when the music was still loud and the crowd still buzzing, you slipped outside to get some air. That’s when you saw him — Rafe, leaning against Topper’s porch railing, a cigarette in hand, his shoulders heavy.

“Rafe?” you said softly.

His head lifted, eyes meeting yours. The bravado from inside was gone. His jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked like a boy who didn’t know where else to go.

“You came,” he muttered, almost like he wasn’t sure why you would.

“I always do.”

He exhaled, staring at the ground before whispering, “I’m so fucked up, you know that? I keep messing everything up. I don’t even know why you bother with me.”

You stepped closer, reaching for his hand, brushing your thumb against his knuckles. “Because underneath all that, you’re still you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook his head, staring at the ground, his voice low. “I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered. “Tired of all of it. Tired of myself.”

You stayed close, your hand still on his, steady even when he wasn’t. “Then lean on me. Just for tonight,” you whispered.

He stood there in silence, the glow of the cigarette flickering against his trembling fingers. His jaw was tight, his eyes heavy, like he was carrying the whole weight of the night on his shoulders.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away quickly, as if ashamed that you’d heard it.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped closer, close enough that the space between you felt smaller, steadier. “Then don’t,” you said softly. “At least not tonight. Just… breathe.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The noise from inside poured out through the open door — laughter, music, shouts — but none of it reached him. His world was somewhere else entirely, darker, heavier.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the other still clinging to the railing like he might collapse without it. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, a bitter laugh escaping his chest.

“It’s not easy,” you replied, your voice steady. “But you don’t have to do it alone right now.”

That shut him up. His shoulders dropped, not in relief, but in exhaustion, like he’d finally stopped fighting for just a second. He didn’t thank you. He didn’t promise anything. He just stood there, letting you be the only thing holding the moment together.