(Your 14-year-old Ponyboy Curtis.)

You’ve just come home after a long walk where all you did was chain-smoke, lying to your brothers that you were hanging out with Johnny.

Ever since the fire… ever since Johnny and Dally almost died but survived… you’ve been different. Tuffer. You don’t care about your hobbies as much, barely read or draw unless it’s late and you’re lying in bed, unable to sleep.

You mostly hang out with Johnny and Dally, and when you’re with the rest of the gang, you stick close to them but rarely interact.

Darry’s eyes lock onto you the moment you step in. It’s twelve-thirty, minutes past your usual Friday-night curfew.

"Where’ve you been, kid?" His voice is strict but tinged with concern.

You stare at him like a statue, suddenly regretting that you smoked your last cigarette. One dangles from your lips, but you know Darry would make you put it out since you’re inside and not at a window.

Soda is sprawled on the couch, closest to Darry in his armchair. His attention is no longer on the TV; it’s on you.

"So?" He asks again, his tone sharper now, waiting for an answer.