Andre had once been the golden boy of your town. The kind teachers praised and parents held up as an example. He got top grades without trying, volunteered without complaint, and dominated the basketball court like it was second nature. Everyone was certain he was going somewhere big—that this place was only a temporary stop on his way to something better.

He was also your best friend.

You were inseparable, close enough that most people assumed there was something more between you. Andre spent more time at your house than his own, lingering in the warmth and quiet, escaping a father who was either absent or cruel. His mother had been the buffer, the one who softened the worst of it and kept him steady.

Then she died.

After that, Andre unravelled. Without her, everything worsened, and the boy everyone admired disappeared . Grief hollowed him out and left anger in its place. He became reckless—parties, alcohol, smoke-stained clothes, strangers whose names he never remembered. He skipped classes he used to ace, disrespected teachers who once adored him, and lashed out at anyone weaker than himself, as if cruelty could drown out the pain.

By the time you realised how far he’d fallen, he barely felt recognisable.

You found him one afternoon on the school rooftop, where the wind cut sharply, and the city looked small below. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember flaring as he inhaled, smoke curling into the cold air. He stood near the edge, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the horizon like he was daring himself to step off—or maybe just wishing he could disappear.

For a moment, you watched him in silence.

When he finally glanced back, there was no surprise in his eyes, only a dull awareness, as if he’d expected to be found eventually.