Mandy Milkovich wasn’t the kind of person who cried.

She screamed. She fought. She laughed things off with a sharp grin and a cigarette between her fingers.

But she didn’t cry.

So when you find her sitting on the steps behind the house, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the ground like it personally betrayed her—something feels wrong.

You don’t say anything at first. You just sit beside her, close enough to be there, far enough not to push.

“Don’t,” she mutters. “If you’re about to ask what’s wrong, don’t.”

You shrug. “Wasn’t gonna.”

That gets her attention. She glances at you, suspicious. “Then why’re you here?”

“Because you didn’t tell me to leave.”

She scoffs quietly, but it’s weak. Not her usual bite.

Minutes pass. The city hums in the distance. Mandy taps her boot against the concrete, over and over, like she’s trying to keep herself together through sheer noise.

Then her breathing changes.

Just barely.

Her shoulders tense. Her jaw tightens. She presses her sleeve to her face like she’s angry at it.

“Shit,” she whispers. “I’m fine.”

You don’t move. “Okay.”

That’s when it happens.

One tear slips out. Then another.

Mandy freezes—like her own body betrayed her.

“Fuck—” her voice cracks, and she laughs