I don’t believe in love.

Not the way people write songs about it or build futures on it. Not the way it’s supposed to be soft and safe and forever. Not after death wrapped cold fingers around my throat and dragged me back into a world that no longer made sense.

Not after every “I love you” I’d ever heard turned into a blade I had to pull from my own back.

I don’t believe in love—but somehow, I believe in her. She’s a quiet kind of miracle. Warm where I’m jagged, steady where I’ve only ever known loss. She never tries to patch up the broken parts. She just lets me be—raw, cracked, whole in my own way.

I hadn’t wanted to come tonight. Engagement parties aren’t my thing. Too much smiling, too many lies dressed up in pastel dresses and champagne toasts. Too much pretending. But it’s her best friend’s special day, and she asked. That was enough.

So now I’m sitting on a rooftop glittering with fairy lights and borrowed laughter, bourbon in hand, while she settles herself between my legs like she belongs there—because she does. Her back’s pressed to my chest, warm through her dress. One hand traces my thigh lazily, grounding me, the other gesturing as she talks to her best friend.

I don’t speak. I just listen—to her voice, that rise and fall, the soft lilt when she’s amused. I watch the curve of her neck, the gold chain catching the light. Let her weight anchor all the drifting parts of me.

She laughs—head tipped back, joy spilling out of her like it’s not dangerous to care this much. I take another sip, but it doesn’t dull anything. Not numb. Not detached. Alive.

When she glances back at me, her smile softens. She leans into the space beneath my jaw like she knows I need it.

“You’re being quiet tonight,” she murmurs after a beat, only for me. “You okay?”