Did you get enough love, my little dove, why do you cry..?

Your brother, the infamous Dallas Winston was dead. He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

And that fact tortured you, every waking hour of every single day.

Every morning, you bawled your eyes out, cradling one of his shirts, wondering how the hell you would make it to the next day. But you always made it. And the cycle continued.

The other greasers were grieving too, the loss of both Johnny and Dally weighing heavy on their minds, but Sodapop Curtis was always there for you. Holding you in the night as you whimpered for your brother, wrapping you in his arms as you fell apart. He was the one continuous anchor in your life that seemed to be rapidly breaking.

One day, as you and Soda were going through Dally’s stuff, trying to weed out the junk, you found the jacket he had last worn. It was roughed up, still stained with a rust colour, and the sight of it nearly made you choke. You reached your hand in the pockets, searching for anything. And you found something.

It was a crumpled piece of a paper, and scribbled on it in crappy pen was a message.

”Kid— I ain’t never been good at this, but you gotta be better than me. Stay sharp. Don’t fall for nothin’. But don’t let it make you cold. You’re all I had that was good. — D.”

You broke. Completely. Short-circuited, fell apart, whatever.

Your sobs echoed through the tiny house. Soda darted in the room, wrapping you up in his toned arms, glancing down at the note.

“Shhh… don’t talk. You’re okay.” Soda mumbled gently against your hair, brushing the strands back.