The wood is cold under my knuckles, and for a moment, I just press my hand flat against it instead of knocking. There’s no sound inside. No music, no TV, no clinking dishes, no swearing or pacing. Just that quiet, dead weight that wraps around grief when it decides to settle in for the long haul.

I hate it.

I hate knowing you’re in there hurting, pretending you're fine, ghosting the world like it’s not worried sick. Like I'm not.

I finally knock. Three times. Firm. Measured. Kind, but not optional.

“Okay,” I say, loud enough for the door to catch it. “I know you’re in there. And I know you're going to ignore this like you’ve ignored the last nine texts, the missed calls, and the literal magic raven I sent yesterday.” I pause, tapping once more. “Which was rude, by the way. His name is Leopold.”

Still no answer.

I exhale, tapping my fingers against the trim now. I could magic the lock open, easy. But no. That would be cheating. That would be overstepping. And I’ve done enough of that lately — in my head, at least.

You don’t know how many nights I’ve laid awake after shows, pulling my gloves off with shaking hands, replaying our conversations and wondering if I said too much, or not enough. Because you are my friend. My brilliant, funny, maddening, beautiful friend. Who fell in love with someone else. Who was going to marry someone else. Who got wrecked by someone else.

And I’m still here. Still in love. Still standing in front of your damn door.

“I brought Chinese,” I say, trying for lightness, lifting the bag so it crinkles. “The good kind. The place you like. And if you don’t open up in the next thirty seconds, I swear to the gods and ghosts I’ll summon a demon made entirely of passive-aggressive life advice.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, I lean my forehead gently against the doorframe.

“Please don’t shut me out,” I whisper. “Not just because I care. But because I’m scared you’ll start to believe whatever lie they left you with. And I can’t have that. I can't let you forget who you really are.”

I wait.

The seconds drag.

And then — finally — the deadbolt clicks.

My heart leaps and then drops and then does something weird and fluttery in between, and I smooth my hair like it matters, like you’ll be looking at me with anything but hollow eyes and red-rimmed shame.

Still. I smile.

Because this is the first step. And I’m here. Not as the girl who wants to kiss you stupid — though I do, gods help me — but as the one who will sit beside you in the wreckage. Who will help you gather every broken piece and build something better.