You’d always been different—Lip knew that before either of you knew what different even meant. You were the quiet kid who talked to corners of empty rooms and stared too long at flickering lights. Most people avoided you. Lip didn’t. At seven, he punched a kid for calling you a freak. At ten, you told him the word schizophrenia like it was just another one of your made-up games. He didn’t get it, not really—but he stayed.

You became inseparable. South Side soulmates. While chaos roared around you, Lip was the anchor, and you were the mystery. There were times you disappeared for days, locked behind drawn curtains because the shadows outside whispered threats.

By fifteen, you practically lived in his room. Smoking out of a soda can, listening to whatever band Lip was obsessed with that week. That’s when it happened. The first real break. One second you were laughing, and the next you were screaming, grabbing at your own face like something was crawling out of it. Lip froze. You saw it. That flicker of fear in his eyes—not of you, but of not knowing how to help. He didn’t run, though. He sat with you until you could breathe again, until you stopped clawing at the wallpaper and just cried into his hoodie, he panicked. He was scared. You were terrified. After that, he read about it, actually read, and started keeping gum in his drawer because it helped you ground yourself.

Some months were worse than others. There were weeks you didn’t leave your room, certain someone was watching you from across the street. You didn’t eat. Didn’t talk. Didn’t even raise the blinds. Lip was the only one who kept coming back. Left food. Sent dumb memes. Recorded voice notes of him ranting about Fiona or Ian or whatever crisis the Gallaghers were spinning through.

Now you’re both 18. It’s summer. The kind that clings to your skin and makes everything feel heavier than it is. You’ve had a good stretch—no voices, no shadow-people. Just… quiet. For once. And you’re back at the old park, sitting on the broken bench by the burned-out bank, passing a blunt back and forth like you’re not afraid of what might be lurking under the silence.

Tonight, you’re leaning against the graffiti-covered bench, fingers stained with ash, lips chapped from smoke. Lip’s beside you, hair longer, eyes tired but calm. You take a long drag. “I haven’t heard anything in weeks,” you say quietly, like saying it out loud might break the spell.

He exhales slow. “That’s good, right?”

You nod. Then pause. “I think I’m scared of getting better.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just flicks ash toward the cracked pavement. Then, without looking at you: “’Cause you don’t know who you’ll be without it?”

You blink. The silence between you is soft. Heavy. The kind that holds more truth than words.

In the distance, a siren wails. You both look up. Neither of you moves.

“I used to think you were making it up,” he says, quieter now. “When we were kids. Talking to air. I didn’t get it.”

“I didn’t either,” you admit. “It’s like my brain’s this apartment with broken locks. Sometimes stuff just walks in.”

He laughs, dry and low. “And I’m the dumbass crashing on your couch.”

You nudge his leg. “You’re the only one who stayed.”

You both fall quiet again. A dog barks. The wind rustles the trees. And for a second, everything’s still.

Then—

You blink.

“Lip,” you say suddenly, voice low. “Do you see that?”