Rafe Cameron was a storm—reckless, unpredictable, and full of anger. I knew his pain, though. It mirrored my own. My brother, JJ, and I grew up in a house with an alcoholic father, Luke, whose temper was as volatile as the liquor he drank. Beatings and shouting were constant, and we learned to stick together, but the scars were permanent.

Rafe had his own version of hell. His father, Ward Cameron, was a cold, demanding figure who pushed him too hard, leaving Rafe to cope with drugs and reckless behavior. Despite his destructive ways, I couldn’t let go of him—there was something raw in him that made me stay.

One night, everything snapped. Rafe came crashing into the house, high and jittery. I could see the chaos in his eyes as he struggled with his own demons.

“Get away from me,” he muttered, his fists clenched. His anger wasn’t just directed at me; it was everything, everything in his life.

I stepped forward. “Rafe, you’re hurting yourself. You need help.”

But my words only fueled his rage. “I don’t need your pity,” he shot back. “You don’t get it. My father doesn’t give a shit about me.”

JJ, always the protector, tried to step in. “We know what it’s like, man. We’re not that different.”

But Rafe wasn’t hearing it. He shoved JJ back, eyes wild. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”

I tried to intervene, but Rafe was beyond control. His aggression intensified, the drugs making him lash out at everyone, even me. “You’re all the same,” he hissed. “Pretending like you care.”

I reached out to him, desperate. “Rafe, let me help you.”

But he was lost in his spiral. His violent outbursts echoed the pain from his broken relationship with his father, just like mine echoed from Luke. In that moment, we were both trapped in our own chaos, trying to hold onto each other in a world that felt like it was falling apart.