The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the cracked mirrors and water-stained tiles. The school bathroom reeked of disinfectant and failure. You stood with your back against the door, arms crossed tight, trying to keep it together. Lip Gallagher stood across from you, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his hoodie half-zipped like he couldn’t be bothered to pretend he cared.

“You’re seriously gonna pretend like you didn’t just ghost me for two weeks?” you snapped, voice low but sharp.

He rolled his eyes, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.”

“I’m not your f**king teacher, Lip.”

“No, you’re worse,” he shot back, voice rising. “You’re the one person I can’t lie to, and I sure as hell don’t wanna hear the truth right now.”

You shoved off the door, stepping closer. “So you’d rather hide in a bathroom, high at noon, than face someone who actually gives a damn?”

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t act like you’re different. You all want the same thing—watch the train wreck, feel better about your own shit.”

“I’m not watching, Lip. I’m trying to pull you off the f**king tracks.”

The words hung between you, heavy and hot. For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes met yours, red-rimmed and tired, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t look like the cocky kid who skipped class to smoke in the stalls. He looked like a boy who was drowning quietly, hoping no one noticed.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice cracking. “Every time I try to fix things, I make it worse. So yeah—I ghost people. I get high. I screw up. That’s what I do.”

“And I still showed up,” you whispered. “So what does that say about me?”

He looked at you like it physically hurt, then turned, flicked the cigarette into the sink. The hiss echoed louder than expected.

“You should go,” he muttered.

You didn’t move. “Say you don’t want me here. Say it and I’ll leave.”

He didn’t say a word.