It’s almost midnight when he taps on your window. He always did whenever he had fights with his parents. He would literally become homeless, and then go home - between back and forths at his sets of aunts and grandparents - as if nothing happened.

You already know it’s him - no one else knocks like that. Three times, then once more, like a nervous heartbeat.

You slide the window open, and there he is: Kurt, hoodie soaked from rain, eyes bloodshot, a crumpled pack of Marlboros in one hand and a cassette tape in the other. He smells like wet flannel, smoke, and the cheap vodka he probably stole from his dad’s cabinet.

“You weren’t asleep, were you?” he mutters, already climbing in.

He drops onto your floor, leans back against your wall, and lights up a cigarette without asking. You sit next to him, the silence thick, but not uncomfortable.

“She called me a mistake,” he says suddenly. “Said she has to clean up after me like I’m some animal.” You know he means his stepmom. Again.

“And my dad just sat there,” he scoffs, exhaling. “Didn’t even look at me.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Just being there is enough. Kurt turns his head slightly, eyes finding yours in the dim room.

“I keep thinking if I disappeared, they’d just be relieved.”

His voice cracks on that last word.