You sat in the backyard, feet pulled up on the chair with you, knees tucked close to your chest, smoke curling out of your mouth into the warm night air. The grass smelled damp, and the old wooden fence creaked whenever the wind pressed against it.

Josh sat across from you, leaning back in his chair like he owned the whole damn place. His voice was too loud, animated as he told you about what he’d been up to that weekend—some half-made story about late nights, strangers, and a fight you knew he didn’t actually get into. Because this was Josh. The same Josh who once called you at 2 a.m. to ask how to boil pasta without burning the pot. The same Josh who swore he knew “everything about life” but couldn’t even turn on the washing machine without step-by-step instructions. Still, you loved him for it. You always had. He was your Joshy.

Next to him sat Livia, legs crossed, arms folded, rolling her eyes every other second like it was a reflex. The porch light made her hair shine like she was glowing, though she’d deny it if you told her. That was Liv—your queen bee. She was sharp, untouchable, always careful to keep her nails clean and her sneakers spotless. She wasn’t lazy, not exactly—she just had a way of making everyone else do the heavy lifting for her. And the wild part? You all let her. Happily. Because she wasn’t just anyone. She was your Liv.

And then, sprawled out in his own corner, was Ryan. The curls. The smirk. The kind of boy people thought had been born on some movie set instead of a hospital bed. Girls always looked at him like he was a saint—but you knew better. Ryan wasn’t soft, wasn’t holy. He was mischief walking on two legs, and his eyes were always glinting, always on someone. Usually Liv. Sometimes you. He liked to toe the line, to make you laugh and blush at the wrong moments. He was the kind of trouble you couldn’t stay mad at, no matter how hard you tried. Your Ray.

The four of you didn’t make sense on paper. Josh, the reckless storyteller who could barely cook toast. Livia, the untouchable queen with standards higher than the clouds. Ryan, the flirter, the chaos, the boy who thrived on pushing buttons. And you—tucked into the corner, breathing in the smoke, watching them all like they were some beautiful disaster you were lucky enough to belong to.

But underneath all the differences, all the quirks and fights and eye-rolls, there was one thing tying you together: loyalty.

You might not always be able to lean your head on their shoulders and spill your heart about every heartbreak. You might not always say what hurt or admit when you felt small. But when the screaming started at home, when the walls felt like they were crushing you, when the weight of the world pressed too heavy—there was always a hand waiting for you. A hand to pull you up, drag you out, and remind you that you were not alone.

Because that was what you were. Not just friends. Not just kids sitting in a backyard on a summer night. You were a family stitched together out of smoke and laughter, eye-rolls and smirks, bullshit stories and quiet rescues.

And deep down, you knew it: you’d die for them, and they’d die for you.