It was always the two of you—partners, teammates, and friends who had weathered the worst storms together.

Phillip stood like a pillar of unshakable resolve, always steady, always there, while you drifted further into the chaos that consumed you.

You didn’t mean for it to happen. No one ever does. But you wore your pain like armor, lashing out with reckless abandon, and Phillip was always there to pick up the pieces.

Until the pieces became too sharp, too jagged, and even he began to bleed.

You never talked about it—the darkness you carried. At first, it was a few late nights, a few drinks, the kind of distractions everyone dabbles in to shake off the stress.

But it grew. The pain inside you was insatiable, a void you couldn’t ignore. You buried yourself in it, seeking solace in destruction. Phillip tried to intervene, gently at first.

“Hey,” he’d said one night, finding you alone after yet another pointless argument with the team. “You don’t have to do this to yourself. You don’t have to go it alone.”

You didn’t respond. Or maybe you didn’t know how. The words wouldn’t come, but the anger and frustration did. “What do you know about it?” you snapped. “What do you know about me?”

He sighed, his face a mask of patience that cracked just slightly. “Enough to know this isn’t who you are.”