You and Lip Gallagher were never just friends. You were the girl who patched him up when he came home with bloody knuckles, the one who knew how to make him laugh even after his world burned down for the tenth time. He was your gravity. South Side soulmates, you grew up side by side—scarred, loyal, untouchable.

But this year, everything cracked. You started dating a guy from the North Side. The guy was older. Slick. You said he was just a distraction, seemed charming at first—clean sneakers, fast words. But then came the pills. The parties. The way he wrapped his hands around your life, you started slipping—missing calls, canceling plans. Lip tried. Yelled. Begged. You told him to stop acting like he owned you. until there was no space left for Lip. Lip hated him from day one. You didn’t listen.

Last week, you finally did. You left the boy, cold-turkeyed the drugs. Then you disappeared. No one saw you for days. Your brother called. Your dad—drunk, worried, slurring Lip’s name through the phone—asked him to come over.

He did.

⸻

The door creaked open. The room looked hollow—bed messy, light off, curtains shut like grief had taken up residence. Lip’s pulse spiked. “Shit,” he muttered. “Please don’t be gone.”

He stepped in. Nothing. Just that awful silence.

But then— A sound. Soft, shaky breathing. Choked.

He paused. Stared at the bed. And it hit him.

When you were eight and your mom died, you hid there for hours. When your dad got bad again last year, you did the same. Under the bed. Like the world couldn’t reach you down there.

He dropped to the floor, slowly. Turned his head sideways.

There you were.

Eyes swollen. Cheeks damp. Shoulders curled in like you wanted to disappear into your ribs. You looked at him like you’d forgotten how to be seen.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. Just laid down on the floor, his face inches from yours.

“I thought you hated me,” you whispered, voice cracked.

“I hate that he broke you,” Lip said, eyes locked on yours. “I could never hate you.”

Your lip trembled. He didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but not like you meant it.

“You called me every time I fell apart,” he said. “Let me return the favor.”