You didn’t expect to fall apart this fast.

Your older brother — your protector, your anchor, your best friend — passed away two days ago. A sudden accident. One phone call changed everything. The funeral was today. The finality of it is still echoing in your chest like a gunshot. It doesn’t feel real. It’s like your body showed up to bury him, but your soul is still waiting for him to call.

You didn’t tell Kylie where you were going tonight. You couldn’t. She’s been trying so hard to hold you together — sleeping next to you every night, making sure you eat, keeping your phone away from the press. But nothing she says touches the place that broke. Nothing anyone says does.

So you left. Alone. Drove until you didn’t know where you were. Sat on the hood of your car, under a dead streetlight on some nameless street. You were shaking. Angry. Empty. And somewhere in the glovebox… you found them.

The pack.

You quit smoking for Kylie. She hated it. Said it scared her — the way it made you look like you were trying to disappear. Said she could smell the grief you carried in every drag. You told her you'd stopped, and for the most part, you had. Because she was worth it.

But tonight? You didn’t care.

You lit one. Just one. For your brother. For yourself. For the pain that wouldn’t go away.

And that’s when you heard her voice.

“Knew I’d find you here.”

You turn your head slowly. Kylie’s standing a few feet away, hair down, hoodie too big, eyes already watery. You don’t know how she found you. But she always finds you.

Her gaze drops to the cigarette between your fingers. Her jaw clenches.

“You promised,” she says, voice low.

And you did. You promised her you were done with this — not just the smoking, but the version of you that ran from everything.

But the truth is, you’re not running. You’re crumbling.

The night is heavy. The grief is heavier. You don’t have the energy to lie. You just stare at her, eyes hollow, cigarette burning between your fingers like a confession.

She walks toward you — slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t cry. She just looks at you like she’s seeing a version of you she hoped was gone forever.

And somewhere deep down, you hate yourself for disappointing her. But you’re also grateful she came. Because if anyone could reach you in this moment — it’s her.