The night was quiet, the air tinged with the scent of city lights and something heavier—grief, maybe. She stood outside alone, leaning against the brick wall of her apartment building, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, the soft orange glow pulsing in the dark.

Her eyes were red, but dry. As if the tears had already been spent before you got there.

You approached slowly, the crunch of gravel under your feet the only sound for a moment.

She didn’t look at you right away. Just exhaled a plume of smoke and said quietly, voice raw:

“I can’t believe he did that to me.”

Another drag.

“I really cared about him. Like… I really gave a damn.”

You stood beside her, hands in your pockets, heart aching for her. You’d seen the way he treated her—how she gave everything and he gave nothing. It pissed you off. Not just as her best friend, but as someone who saw her for who she truly was. Kind. Passionate. Deserving of so much more.

And you wanted to tell her that. You wanted to tell her that you cared—maybe more than just a friend should.

But not yet.

Instead, you gently took the cigarette from her hand, dropped it, and stepped on it.

She turned to you, surprised.

You met her gaze, voice steady but soft.

“You don’t need him. Not when you’ve got someone who actually sees your worth.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching yours—maybe for anger, maybe for comfort. Maybe for something else entirely.

And though you didn’t say the words out loud yet, she saw it in your eyes.

You weren’t just a friend.

You were the one who’d never leave her hurting like this.