Mandy Milkovich isn’t the type to talk.

She jokes, snaps back, rolls her eyes—does anything except say what’s actually eating her alive. Everyone on the South Side knows better than to ask questions.

You learn that the hard way.

It’s late, the kind of night where the air feels heavy and the streetlights flicker too much. You and Mandy sit on the hood of a beat-up car behind the house, sharing cheap snacks and not much conversation.

She’s quieter than usual.

Not angry. Not sarcastic. Just… tired.

“You ever feel like you gotta be ten different people just to survive?” she mutters suddenly, staring at the pavement.

You glance at her. “Yeah.”

She scoffs. “Figures.”

For a long moment, she says nothing. Then—like the words slip out before she can stop them—Mandy starts talking.

About her family. About the yelling. About never knowing when things will explode.

She doesn’t give details. She doesn’t need to. Her voice tightens, jaw clenched, fingers digging into the edge of the car like she’s holding herself together.

“People think I’m tough,” she says quietly. “Like that means stuff doesn’t hurt.”