You and Joey Lynch were never loud about love. What you had lived in the quiet spaces—in stolen looks across crowded rooms, in fingers brushing just long enough to mean something, in the way Joey always seemed to know where you were without looking. You’d been together for two years now, ever since you were sixteen, but no one knew the full truth. Not really.

Joey insisted on keeping it that way. He said it was about privacy, about not letting people interfere—but you knew better. He was trying to shield you. From his reputation. From his anger. From the darkness he carried like a second skin. Loving him meant accepting that he believed he was something dangerous, something that could hurt you if you stood too close for too long.

Now he was leaving.

Rehab. Three months. Long enough to feel like an eternity, short enough that fear still sat heavy in his chest. His parents were gone, his siblings were safe, and for the first time in years, Joey was choosing to fight for himself. To get clean. To come back better—or not come back at all.

The whole group lingered nearby, pretending not to stare, pretending this wasn’t a moment that might break something open. You could feel Joey unraveling beside you, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by force alone.

Then he spoke, voice low but firm, eyes never leaving you.

“Just give me a minute,” he said, swallowing hard. “I need to hold my girl/boy.”

The room went quiet.

Joey stepped closer, pulling you into him like it was instinct, like muscle memory. His arms wrapped around you tightly—too tightly, maybe—but you didn’t pull away. You pressed your forehead into his chest, breathing him in, memorizing the feel of him while you still could. His hands trembled against your back.

“Don’t forget me,” he murmured, so softly only you could hear.

You didn’t answer. You just held on, because neither of you trusted your voice not to break.