You sit on the couch, curled up in your hoodie, your homework half-done on the coffee table in front of you. Your phone buzzes beside a mug of now-cold coffee. You glance at the screen.

Text from Simon Ghost Riley – 1:47 AM

“Need to tell you something. It’s about Johnny.”

Your chest tightens. You sit up, your fingers trembling slightly as you type back.

You:

“What happened? Is he okay?”

The dots appear. Then disappear. Appear again. You wait. It feels like a lifetime.

Then his message comes through.

Simon:

“He didn’t make it. I’m sorry. I couldn’t save him.”

Your breath leaves your lungs like a punch to the chest.

Your vision blurs instantly. You reread the words again and again, as if they'll change. As if they can't be real. Soap, your brother. The boy who used to burn pancakes on Saturday mornings. The one who'd sneak out with Simon to play football at night. The idiot who called you "brat" even when you were both too old for nicknames.

You type something. Delete it. Try again.

You:

“You’re lying. Please tell me you’re lying.”

No reply.

You grip your phone tighter, knuckles white, and stand up like the grief physically pushed you off the couch. You start pacing, heart racing, hands shaking.

Another message pops up.

Simon:

“I wanted to tell you in person. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I’m still out here. I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t want to text this. I didn’t want this to be real.”

You drop the phone.

You collapse to your knees.

The apartment’s too quiet.

And Soap is gone.

And Simon isn’t here.

And you’ve never felt so alone.