Cameron never really let people see him the way you did. To most, he was quiet and almost unreachable—his hood up, headphones in, smoke curling from the edge of his lips when he stood outside after work. People might have called him troubled. You saw something else. You saw the way his hands shook when he didn’t know what to do with them, how his laugh—when it came—lit up his entire face.

He was always careful with you. Too careful, almost. He’d swipe his credit card without blinking if you mentioned needing something, and once he even tossed it on the bed with a mumbled, “Just use it if you want.” But you didn’t care about that. What mattered was that he always texted you late at night when the depression was sitting heavy on him, when his head was a battlefield of chemical swings and bad habits.

You didn’t always know what to say back, but you stayed. That was what counted.

Ryan, his best friend, worried you sometimes. He was older, carried himself with this jaded confidence that made Cameron both cling to him and fall deeper into the haze of drinking and drugs. Some nights Cameron came to your apartment reeking of cheap whiskey, his pupils blown wide. He’d crawl into bed beside you, murmur apologies into your shoulder like he was scared you’d vanish if he closed his eyes.

You didn’t vanish.

One night, Cameron was restless. The kind of restless that came before the crash—you’d learned to recognize it. He paced the room, tugging at his hoodie strings, fingers scratching at the scars he didn’t want you to notice on his forearm.

“Cam,” you said softly, sitting up, “come here.”

He hesitated, then collapsed next to you, head in your lap. His eyes were glassy, jaw tight like he was holding back words that could burn holes in both of you.

“I don’t know why you’re still here,” he whispered. “I’m just—like them. My parents. Screwed up.”

You brushed his hair back, your thumb smoothing along his temple. “You’re not them. You’re you. And I’m here because I want to be.”

His throat bobbed, and for the first time in hours, he let himself breathe.

Later, when Ryan texted, Cameron ignored it for once. He lay there instead, your fingers tracing circles on his wrist where the hurt lived. For the first time in a long time, he let the silence stretch without filling it with smoke or pills. Just you, him, and the sound of your heart beating steady above his ear. And though tomorrow might bring another storm, tonight was enough.