The Curtis house felt quieter these days, but the silence never lasted long. It had been weeks since Johnny and Dally died, weeks since Ponyboy had written his English paper, yet the weight of everything still hung heavy in the air. Life kept moving, even if none of them felt quite ready to catch up.

Darry worked longer hours than ever, shouldering responsibilities he never asked for. The bills didn’t stop coming, and neither did his expectations—for himself, for Ponyboy, for the future he was trying to hold together with tired hands.

Sodapop still smiled, still cracked jokes at the DX, but there was a hollowness behind his laughter. Letters from Sandy went unread in a drawer, and some nights, when the house was dark and quiet, he’d slip outside just to breathe.

Ponyboy tried to act normal, to convince himself he was okay. He kept up in school, avoided fights, even got a decent grade on that paper. But sometimes, when he was alone, the memories crept in—Johnny’s voice, Dally’s last moments, the way the world felt like it was moving on without them.

They were holding on the best they could, but holding on didn’t mean forgetting. And it sure didn’t mean healing—not yet.