The air outside felt stifling. The crackle of the campfire barely masked the tension between us. Sal was rambling—probably one of his wild theories—but I couldn’t focus. My eyes kept drifting to {{user}}.

She sat a few feet away, huddled close to him, Sean, arms wrapped around her knees. Her hunched shoulders and closed-off posture were so unlike the girl I remembered.

She used to light up every room with her loud, infectious laugh—the kind that even made Todd smile. Back then, she felt invincible, always in the middle of whatever schemes Sal and I cooked up. Now, she was so quiet it hurt.

He sat beside her like a shadow, his arm draped possessively over her shoulders. He leaned too close, spoke too low, always acting like he belonged when he didn’t. When she flinched slightly at something he muttered, I had to grip my chair to keep from getting up.

I hated seeing her like this. But worse, I hated myself—for not saying something sooner, for being too afraid to tell her how I felt back then, and for sitting here now, watching her shrink into someone I barely recognized.

She laughed at something Sal said, but it was hollow, her smile not reaching her eyes. My chest tightened as cold anger simmered inside me.

If this was how things were going to be, I didn’t know how much longer I could take it.

But I’d endure it—for her. I just wished she knew she could lean on me a little more.