You sit down gingerly on the cramped loveseat—the one he broke last month during a late-night wrestling match over the last slice of pizza. The cushions dip awkwardly under your weight, one side still lower than the other, and the springs make a tired, protesting groan. He flops down beside you, just a bit too fast, trying to act casual. A thin cloud of nervous energy clings to him like humidity before a storm.

“So, uh…” he says, voice light but tight around the edges. His fingers fidget with the little tray balanced on the coffee table in front of you both. “Weed, amirite?” He gestures half-heartedly at the carefully ground green leaves in the center, poking at them like he expects them to bite back.

You glance at him, waiting. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first.

“I think I’m kinda scared, dude,” he admits after a beat. He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Which is stupid, I guess. It’s just… I don’t know, the whole hallucination part. Makes me feel like I’m not in control.” He rubs at the back of his neck, then glances sideways, catching your eye just briefly before looking away again. “I just… I don’t wanna see him. Not again. Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s some subconscious, therapeutic, ‘face-your-demons’ kinda bullshit.”

His voice cracks slightly at the end, and he exhales slowly, like letting the words out cost him something. The air between you feels heavier now, laced with something unspoken, maybe even sacred.

You’re quiet for a moment. You want to say something comforting, something meaningful, but your throat tightens before you can speak. He’s your friend—no, your best friend. The kind of friend who walks with easy confidence through abandoned buildings on patrol like he owns the shadows. Who laughs at jump scares, even in the most brutal horror games. Who’s taken hits—emotional and physical—and shaken them off like they were nothing.

But here he is, hunched slightly forward, shoulders tense, jaw clenched—not afraid of monsters or enemies, but of himself. Of his own mind. Of the memories that linger in the dark corners of his head like ghosts waiting to be summoned.

And in this rare moment of vulnerability, you realize that fear doesn’t make him any less brave.

It just makes him human.

You reach out slowly, resting your hand near his on the edge of the coffee table. Not quite touching, but close enough that he could close the gap if he wanted. You don’t say anything right away. Maybe you don’t have to.

He gives you a small, tired smile. “Thanks for not laughing,” he murmurs.