Rafe was unraveling—and you saw it long before anyone else dared to admit it.

He was clinging to the image, that golden boy fantasy his father carved into him with blood and pressure. Rafe pushed himself past the edge, past exhaustion, past sanity. He was burning fuel he didn’t have anymore, just to be what everyone expected. Just to make Ward Cameron nod his head like that meant something. Like that meant love.

But Rafe was fading. Dimming. His shine had turned sour, dulled by desperation and chemicals he couldn’t even name anymore. His hands shook sometimes. His jaw never unclenched. And his eyes—those eyes that used to burn—looked hollow now. Dead space behind glass.

He turned to drugs because nothing else numbed it right. Coke, oxy, pills cut with whatever. You saw how he still looked to his father like salvation might be waiting there. And you saw how Ward didn’t even flinch at the dark circles carved under Rafe’s eyes, or the way his breath came in sharp, broken stutters.

Rafe wanted it all—what the other Kooks flashed like trophies. Guns. Bitches. Weed. Money. YSL, gold chains, the goddamn Maserati, a view from the penthouse, a helicopter ready to fly him out of anything. Fame that screamed louder than the emptiness.

And he got it. Every last twisted dream. He outdid them all. But it cost him everything real.

His light. His soul. His fucking self.

It was like watching gold melt into ash.

And was it worth it?

You never said it aloud, but the question sat on your tongue every time you looked at him.

That night—it was some party, another one in a long line of meaningless nights. Loud music, fake smiles, fake highs. You searched for him and found him in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, water running, splashing the back of his neck like he was trying to come back to life.

You stood in the doorway, watching. The mirror caught you both. Rafe’s reflection was a ghost of who he used to be—skin pale, eyes glassy, sweat clinging to his temples. His breathing was shallow, panicked. Probably high again. Probably scared underneath it all.

You didn’t say his name.

Just, “What have you become?”

His head snapped up. You saw the flicker in his eyes—like you reached in and touched something he buried deep. His jaw locked tight, shoulders stiff, but he didn’t say anything at first.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you—and his voice was ice.

“Funny—you only show up when I’m already broken.”

Cold like the skin he kept trying to revive.