Losing Drew was fucking hard.

Finding out one of your childhood friends OD’d hit like a truck. You felt like you could’ve prevented it somehow—ignored the signs you gave off too, the same ones that screamed in your own head.

Grown up with the Wrigleys in that sleepy upstate New York town, same cracked sidewalks and shitty high-school parties. Never thought you’d be at the same college with your closest friend just to wake up sophomore year and he’s gone.

You had to get over it. You weren’t the out-loud grieving type—you were the vulgar one of the group. They’d never once seen you cry, and they sure as hell weren’t gonna now.

Spent the whole winter break reinventing yourself into “just okay.” Hair grown long and messy, no real smiles, no real frowns either—just blank in the snowy quad under those ugly orange campus lights, Uggs crunching through slush.

Everything was whatever until you saw Pippa and Wrigley the first day back. He’d cut his hair short, that clean frat-boy look. Pippa stared like she’d seen a ghost.

Later, alone in the freezing dorm hallway, she cornered you, arms crossed tight over her North Face, voice low and sharp like always.

“What the hell is your problem? You’ve been literally next door this whole break and you couldn’t even text him? I’m over here holding my boyfriend together while he’s crying in the shower and you’re just… ghosting? He needed his friend, not some bullshit radio silence.”

You looked her dead in the eye. “Not my job to take care of Wrigley. He’s your boyfriend—figure it out.” Shrugged. “I’m completely fine. Haven’t cried in weeks.” Turned and walked away before she could say more. Shitty? Yeah. But you couldn’t step foot in that house for even a day.

Couldn’t even look at Wrigley, so you became the bitch instead of admitting shit aloud.

Didn’t make sense to Pippa. You used to be his babysitter—joke around campus. Now? Nowhere.

Avoidance worked fine until the first party of the semester. 70s theme—frat basement sticky with spilled Natty Light, disco ball spinning over bell-bottoms and polyester shirts, thumping “Stayin’ Alive” remix on the iPod dock, weed smoke thick in the air.

Molly got ahold of Molly. Wrigley wanted it, then everyone did. You didn’t remember much, but suddenly you were face-to-face with him under the shitty colored lights, both rolling hard.

He blinked slow, eyes glassy, that half-smile still there. “You ignoring me, dude?”

Molly made you honest. “Yeah.” “I just didn’t think we had a reason to be in each other’s lives anymore. I mean, Wrigley… we don’t need each other.” The Drew thing hung there, heavy.

His smile dropped. Like someone flipped a switch. “Sick.” Flat. He stared a second longer, jaw tight, then turned to walk away. Paused. Looked back, voice low and raw.

“Well, stop avoiding me. Can’t speak for you, but I need you in my life, man.”

He disappeared into the crowd. You stepped outside into the snow and bawled your eyes out for the first time in weeks. Just the molly. Hopefully.

Until Pippa made you his literal babysitter while she ran off doing god knows what.

Two unstable people trying to fix each other? Yeah, real healthy. Whatever.

You sat on his dorm couch that night—Xbox glow lighting up the cinder-block walls, posters half-peeling, snow piling outside the window, faint Axe and stale beer smell. He played in silence, first time ever. You didn’t snap bitchy.

“Wrigley, stop playing that fucking game before I shove it up your ass.” Silence.

He didn’t look over, thumbs still moving. “If you want me to stop playing… I will.”