Your phone buzzes against your nightstand, the screen lighting up with Maddy’s name.

It’s 1:13 a.m.

You hesitate, then answer. “Maddy?”

Her voice comes through the line, quiet but firm. “Get in your car. I need an escape.”

No explanation. No greeting. Just a demand.

You don’t ask questions. You grab your keys and drive.

By the time you pull up in front of her house, Maddy is already outside, arms crossed, face blank. She slides into the passenger seat like she’s done it a thousand times before, like she belongs there.

“Drive,” she says.

“Where?”

She shrugs. “Anywhere.”

So, you do.

The roads are nearly empty, streetlights flashing past in slow blurs. The silence stretches, heavy and thick. She’s usually so full of words, always knowing exactly what to say. But now, she just stares out the window, fingers playing with the hem of her hoodie.

She looks small. Not weak—Maddy Perez is never weak—but tired. Worn down.

You wait, giving her space. Eventually, she exhales sharply and mutters, “I hate feeling weak.”

You glance at her. “You’re not.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “Then why does it feel like everyone gets to hurt me and walk away like it’s nothing?”

Her voice doesn’t crack, but you can tell she’s holding something back. Maybe it’s about Nate. Maybe it’s about Cassie’s betrayal, her home life, her entire world unraveling—or maybe it’s all of it.

You want to tell her she’s stronger than all of them, that she’s untouchable, that she’s Maddy-fucking-Perez.

But you don’t. Because right now, she doesn’t want to hear it.

So instead, you just drive.

And for once, Maddy lets the silence speak for her.