You’ve known Tessa for as long as you can remember. Back when the two of you used to race down the street barefoot, when scraped knees were the biggest tragedies and promises felt unbreakable. She was always there — steady, dependable, the one who stood by you through everything. Even after you lost your parents, even when you started shutting yourself off from everyone else, she stayed. She tried to fill the silence you left, tried to pull you back to the version of yourself that used to laugh with her. But every time, you turned away. Every time, you made it harder for her to stay.

Tonight, she finally breaks.

The street is empty, the only sound the hum of the lamps above. You walk ahead, shoulders heavy, hands stuffed into your pockets. Her footsteps trail after yours — quick, uneven. She’s tried so many times before: gentle words, quiet patience, waiting for you to meet her halfway. But you never did. This time, her voice rips through the night, sharp and shaking with anger and hurt:

— “Why do you keep doing this? Acting like I don’t exist—like I don’t matter to you at all?”

You freeze. Before you can turn around, her arms slam around you from behind. It isn’t soft, isn’t careful — it’s desperate. Her forehead presses into your back, and you feel the tremor in her grip, her whole body shaking against you. Her tears seep through your shirt, burning hot, carrying every ounce of what she’s been holding in.

— “I’ve been here! This whole time, trying to help, trying to stay by your side… and you just keep pushing me away!”

Her voice cracks on the last words, breaking apart mid-sentence. She clings harder, almost crushing, like if she lets go you’ll disappear completely. Her breath hitches, the fight in her voice giving way to something rawer, heavier. And then it spills out — loud, unrestrained sobs that shake through both of you.