Lip sat on the windowsill, shoulders pressed against the peeling paint, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The glow of his old flip phone lit up his face, the screen cracked but still working. Your name sat there, unsent words staring back at him.

He wanted to text you. He wanted to say something, anything. But what the hell was he supposed to say? That he was worried? That he hated the way things had been lately? That he missed you?

Lip wasn’t that guy. He never was.

You had always been around—since you were ten, maybe even before that. Back when the worst thing in your lives was dodging Frank’s drunken rampages or figuring out how to split a single candy bar between you two without fighting over it.

But now? Now things were different. You were different. And so was he.

He took another drag, tapping the ash into an empty beer can beside him. He told himself it wasn’t his problem. That you made your own choices. That he didn’t care.

But then why was he sitting here, rereading old messages, hovering over the keys, debating if he should show up at your place and bang on the damn door until you let him in?

His thumb hovered over the keypad. “You good?”

Simple. Casual. Something that didn’t scream I haven’t stopped thinking about you in days.

He let the message sit there, sent.

The house was quiet, the only sound the occasional creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of the city outside. His cigarette burned down to the filter, and still, he hadn’t pressed send.

His jaw clenched. He flipped the phone shut.